A  STUDY  IN 
SOUTHERN  POETRY 


For  Use  in  Schools,  Colleges 
and  the  Library 


BY 

HENRY    JEROME    STOCKARD 

PRESIDENT    OF    PEACE    INSTITUTE 


NEW  YORK  AND  WASHINGTON 

THE  NEALE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

1911 


Copyright,  1911,  by 
The  Neale  Publishing  Company 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 


257825 


Index  of  Titles 

ADONAIS   (HABNEY)    173 

AH AB  MOHAMMED  (LEGABE)    120 

ALABAMA  GARDEN,  AN  (PECK)    285 

AMERICA  TO  GREAT  BRITAIN   (ALLSTON) 22 

AMY   (LEGARE)    121 

ANGEL  WATCHERS  (JEFFREY)   143 

ANNABEL  LEE  (POE)    66 

ASHBY   (THOMPSON) 116 

ASHES  OF  GLORY  (REQUIER)    129 

ASSAULT,   THE    (THOMPSON)    255 

As    SOME    MYSTERIOUS    WANDERER    OF    THE    SKIES 

(STOCKARD)      305 

AT  ARLINGTON    (RANDALL)    210 

AT  ST.  OSWALD'S   (PRESTON)    140 

AT  THE  NINTH  HOUR  (SPALDING)   218 

AUTUMN  IN  THE  SOUTH   (MALONE)    325 

BALLAD  OF  TREES  AND  THE  MASTER,  A  (LANIER)  ....  237 

BAND  IN  THE  PINES,  THE  (COOKE)    172 

BEETHOVEN  AND  ANGELO  (TABS)   266 

BEFORE  DEATH    (PRESTON)    139 

BEFORE  THE  RAIN  (CAWEIN)    316 

BELLS,  THE  (Pos)    68 

BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD,  THE  (O'HARA) 100 

BLESSING  ON  THE  DANCE,  A  (RUSSELL) 279 

BOND  OF  BLOOD,  THE  (THOMPSON)    271 

BUST  OF  KRONOS,  THE  (HAYNE) 292 

CAMEO  BRACELET,  THE   (RANDALL)    205 

CAVERNS   (CAWEIN)    321 

CHRISTMAS  NIGHT  OF  '62  (McCABE) 220 

CITY  IN  THE  SEA,  THE  (POE)   62 

CLOSING  YEAR,  THE  (PRENTICE) 31 

CLOUD  FANTASIES   (HAYNE) 164 

COMPARISON,  A  (HAYNE)  166 

3 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


CONFEDERATE  CBOSS  OF  HONOB,  THE   (FLASH)    ....  180 

CONQUEBED    BANNEB,    THE     (RYAN) 199 

CONQUEBOB    WOBM,    THE     (POE) 54 

COBN      (LANIEB)      238 

COTTON  BOLL,  THE  (TIMBOD)   146 

CBEED    (TOWNSEND)     193 

CBISMUS  TIME  is  COME  (BONEB)  260 

CBYSTAL,  THE   (LANIEB)    226 

DEATH    (RYAN)    202 

DEATH-DBEAM   OF  ABMENIA,   THE    (THOMPSON)....  273 

DECADENCE    (  SLEDD)     309 

DEPABTED,   THE    (TABS)    266 

DBEAMING  IN  THE  TBENCHES  (McCABE) 221 

DBOUTH    (CAWEIN)    315 

ENCHANTMENT   (CAWEIN)    320 

ENVOY    (PIATT)    190 

EVENING   SONG    (LANIEB)    225 

EVEBY  YEAB   (PIKE)    84 

EVOLUTION   (TABB)    267 

FACE  TO  FACE  (HAYNE)   167 

FAME    (TABB)    267 

FEUD   (CAWEIN)    317 

FEW  DAYS  OFF,  A   (McNEHJL)    336 

FIGHT  AT  THE  SAN  JACINTO,  THE  (PALMEB) 123 

FLOOD-TIDE   (PBESTON)    141 

FLOBENCE  VANE   (COOKE)    93 

FOBEBODING  (PECK)    282 

FBESHNESS  OF  POETIC  PEBCEPTION  (HAYNE) 165 

GANGESE  DBEAM,  A   (HILL)    184 

GEOBGIA  VOLUNTEEB,  A  (TOWNSEND)    195 

GOOD-BY   (STANTON)    300 

GBAVE    IN    HOLLYWOOD    CEMETEBY,    RICHMOND,    A 

(PBESTON)     134 

GBEAT  MAN,  THE  (DABGAN)   342 

HARK  TO  THE  SHOUTING  WIND  (TIMBOD)   153 

HABLEQUIN  OF  DBEAMS,  THE   (LANIEB)    236 

HAUNTED  PALACE,  THE   (PoE)    52 

HEAD  OF  NIOBE,  THE  (HAYNE)    292 

4 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


HEALTH,   A    (PINKNEY)    36 

HE  WHO  HATH  LOVED   (MALONE)    326 

HIGH  TIDE  AT  GETTYSBURG,  THE 268 

HYMN   151 

IDEAL  SIESTA,  AN  (HELL)    187 

IN  EXILE   (THOMPSON)    248 

IN  SHADOW-LAND    (  HAYNE)    293 

INTERCESSION    ( SLEDD)    309 

IN  THE  SOUTHERN  PINES   (PECK)    283 

IN  VINCULIS  (HILL)   188 

ISAAC    (SLEDD)    307 

ISRAFEL   (POE)    49 

JOHN  PELHAM   (RANDALL)    209 

LENORE   (POE)    51 

LIGHT'OOD  FIRE,  THE  (BONER) 259 

'LlGION      ( McNEILL)      336 

LITTLE  ELAINE   (STANTON)    299 

LITTLE  GIFFEN    (TICKNOR)    109 

LOST  PLEIAD,  THE  ( SIMMS)   43 

LOYAL   (TICKNOR)    110 

MAN  IN  GRAY,  THE  (CAWEIN)   318 

MARION   (SIMMS)    40 

MEMORIES    (COOKE)    171 

MIGNON    (PECK)    286 

MOCKING-BIRD,  THE  (HAYNE)    162 

MOLLUSCS  (STOCKARD)   304 

Music  IN  CAMP  (THOMPSON)   113 

MY  BABES  IN  THE  WOOD  (PIATT) 191 

MY  DEAD  FRIEND  (STANTON) 297 

MY  LIFE  is  LIKE  THE  SUMMER  ROSE  (WILDE) 29 

MY  MARYLAND   (RANDALL)    207 

MY  SILENT  GUEST   (SLEDD)    306 

MY  STUDY  (HAYNE)    164 

MY  WIFE  AND  CHILD  (JACKSON) 106 

NEW  MARKET  (GORDON)    288 

OCTOBER  IN  TENNESSEE  (MALONE)   323 

ODE   (TIMROD)    152 

OH,  ASK  ME  Nor  (MCNEILL) 335 

5 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


ONLY  A  DBEAM   (REQUIEB) 132 

ONLY  A  MEMORY  (MCCABE)   222 

ORIGIN  OF  THE  BANJO,  THE  (RUSSELL) 276 

OUB  ANGLO-SAXON  TONGUE   ( HOPE) 159 

PINE'S  MYSTEBY,  THE   (HAYNE) 163 

FOE'S  COTTAGE  AT  FOBDHAM   (BONEB)    261 

POET'S  VISION,  THE   (SIMMS)    39 

POLK    (FLASH) 181 

PBESENTIMENT  (RYAN)   203 

RAINBOW,  THE   (WELBY)    96 

RAVEN,  THE   (POE)    55 

RED  OLD  HILLS  OF  GEOBGIA,  THE  (JACKSON) 104 

REMEMBBANCE   (BONEB)    263 

RESIGNATION,  OB  DAYS  OF  MY  YOUTH  (TUCKEB)  ....     20 

SCIENCE   (STOCKABD)    304 

SCBEECH-OWL,  THE  (HAYNE)    293 

SEA  LYBIC,  A   (HAYNE) 295 

SHAKESPEABE  ( STOCKABD)    303 

SILENCE   (SPALDING)    215 

SOLACE  (THOMPSON)    247 

SONG   (PINKNEY)    37 

SONG  FOB  THE  SOUTH,  A  (PECK)    283 

SONNET    (TIMBOD)    154 

SONNET    (TIMBOD)    154 

SOBOLLA    (DABGAN)    340 

SOUTHEBN  SNOW-BIBD,  THE  (HAYNE) 294 

STAB,  THE    (HABNEY)    175 

STABBY  HOST,  THE   (SPALDING)    217 

STAB-SPANGLED  BANNEB,  THE  (KEY)   26 

STONEWALL  JACKSON  (FLASH)   182 

STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  GBAVE  (PBESTON)    136 

STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  WAY  (PALMES) 125 

SUNDOWN    (MCNEELL)    336 

SUNBISE    (LANIEB)     229 

SWOBD  OF  ROBEBT,  LEE,  THE  (RYAN ) 201 

THAT'S  ALL    (FLASH)    179 

THREE  SUMMEB  STUDIES  (HOPE)   156 

"TIME  BRINGS  ROSES"  (BONEB)   264 

To  A  LILY  (LEGARE)    119 

6 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


TOGETHER    (FLASH)    178 

To  HELEN  (PoE)   48 

To  ONE  IN  PARADISE  (Pos) 72 

To  THE   MOCKING-BIRD    (PIKE) 82 

TREE  TOAD,  THE   (CAWEIN)    313 

TULIP,  THE   (.THOMPSON  ) 250 

TWILIGHT  AT  SEA   (WELBY)    98 

TWILIGHT  MOTH,  A   (CAWEIN)    312 

ULALUME   (POE)    63 

VAST  UNKNOWN,  THE  (SPALDING)    217 

VIRGINIANS  OF  THE  VALLEY  (TICKNOR)   108 

WHEN  THE  CRICKET  SINGS  (PECK) 284 

WHO  WAS  IT!   (REQUIER)    131 

WIDOWED  HEART,  THE  (PIKE)    87 

WILL  AND  THE  WING,  THE  (HAYNE)   166 

WITCH  IN  THE  GLASS,  THE  (PIATT) 191 

WIZARD  OF  THE  SADDLE,  THE  (BOYLE) 328 

WOMEN  OF  THE  CONFEDERACY,  THE  (BOYLE)  330 


Preface 

There  is  a  deplorable  lack  of  knowledge  as  to 
Southern  poets.  The  object  of  this  volume  is  to  give 
a  glimpse  at  their  lives  and  a  more  complete  survey 
of  their  work  than  any  book  that  I  have  seen  has 
offered. 

A  few  writers,  not  born  in  the  South  but  identi- 
fied with  it,  are  included:  Albert  Pike,  an  officer 
in  the  Confederacy,  for  instance.  Quite  as  many 
others,  native  here  but  resident  elsewhere,  have  been 
omitted:  Mrs.  Julia  C.  R.  Dorr  and  Mr.  C.  P. 
Cranch,  for  examples. 

It  may  appear  that  undue  attention  has  been  given 
to  certain  poets  of  the  war  period.  Ample  space 
has  been  accorded  them  for  two  reasons:  first,  the 
intrinsic  value  of  their  work  warrants  it ;  and,  second, 
their  poems  either  have  never  been  collected  or  no 
longer  are  in  print. 

I  acknowledge  my  indebtedness  to  the  following 
publishers  for  the  use  of  poems  over  which  they  hold 
the  copyright:  Messrs.  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Co.  for 
selections  from  the  works  of  Messrs.  Peck  and  Wm. 
H.  Hayne ;  to  the  Independent  for  Lanier's  "  The 
Crystal/'  "Ballad  of  Trees/'  and  "Sunrise";  to 
Messrs.  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co.  for  "  The  Harlequin 
of  Dreams/'  "Evening  Song,"  and  "Corn";  to 
Messrs.  Small,  Maynard  &  Co.  for  Tabb's  poems ;  to 
the  Century  Co.  for  selections  by  Wm.  H.  Thompson, 
John  H.  Boner,  etc.;  to  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin 
&  Co.  for  poems  by  James  Maurice  Thompson  and 
Wm.  H.  Hayne;  to  Mr.  J.  P.  Kennedy  for  Ryan's 

9 


PREFACE 


work;  and  to  Dr.  George  Preston  for  the  poems  by 
his  mother.  My  thanks  are  due  also  to  several  of 
the  poets  represented  for  work  generously  placed  at 
my  disposal. 

A  work  of  this  character  is  never  complete: 
were  it  possible  to  make  the  manuscript  so,  the 
printed  book  would  not  be;  new  writers  are  continu- 
ally appearing,  while  the  living  writers  who  are 
represented  are  changing  their  record.  To  the  dis- 
cerning reader,  though,  one  fact  will  be  evident:  the 
stream  of  poesy  in  our  Southland  has  grown  wider 
and  deeper  and  stronger,  and  others  may  trace  it  as 
it  widens  out  into  a  majestic  river. 

H.  J.  S. 
RALEIGH,  N.  C. 

September  14,   1910. 


10 


Poetics 

I 
VERSIFICATION 

VERSE.  A  Verse  is  a  line  of  a  poem.  The  word 
is  often  incorrectly  used  for  stanza. 

STANZA.  A  Stanza  is  a  collection  of  verses  mak- 
ing up  a  regular  division  of  a  poem.  Two  lines  so 
associated  make  a  couplet;  three,  a  triplet;  four,  a 
quatrain,  etc. 

RHYME.  Rhyme  is  a  correspondence  of  sound  at 
the  ends  of  verses.  If  the  unisonance  is  on  the  last 
syllable,  the  rhyme  is  masculine,  or  single;  if  on  the 
next  to  the  last,  feminine,  or  double ;  if  on  the  third 
from  the  last,  triple.  The  three  kinds  are  thus  il- 
lustrated in  the  order  named: 

Where  the  pools  are  bright  and  deep, 
Where  the  gray  trout  lies  asleep. 

Nor  wintry  leaves,  nor  vernal, 
Nbr  days,  nor  things  diurnaL 

The  young  May  moon  is  beaming,  love, 
The  glow-worm's  lamp  is  gleaming,  love. 

METEE.  Metre  is  the  regular  recurrence  of  stressed 
syllables;  and  such  syllables,  together  with  those  un- 
accented grouped  with  them,  determine  the  kind  of 
verse.  By  indicating  the  former  thus  (  x  )  and  the 

11 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

latter  thus  ( '  )  we  may  illustrate  the  various  kinds 
of  feet,  or  groups  of  syllables: 

>          x      |   /      x     |   '        *     |   '          x 
Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so   bright.     (Iambus.) 

x         f  I  x    /     I    x      /    j      x 
Love  me  little,  love  me  long.  (Trochee.) 

'  '/X|'  /  X]  /         /         X       |>         /  X 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  a  wolf  on  the  fold. 

(Anapest.) 

X       >         /      |      X         '  /      |      X      /  'j  X  f  /| 

Coral  and  sea-fan  and  tangle,  the  blooms  and  the 

x          '      '   I     x  ' 
palms  of  the  ocean.  (Dactyl.) 

There  are  yet  other  kinds  of  feet,  but  they  occur 
in  lines  of  the  foregoing  types.  The  pyrrhic  (  "  ) 
and  J  spondee  (  xx  )  are  seen  in  this  line : 

/          x|  /  /   |    /         x|/         /   I    x  x 

The   quality   of  mercy   is  not  strained. 

It  frequently  happens  that  a  trochaic  foot  is  intro- 
duced into  an  iambic  line,  or  that  the  verse  is  other- 
wise varied;  this  may  be  done  with  a  most  happy 
effect,  and  a  poet's  skill  in  such  transitions  is  an 
index  to  his  mastery  of  his  art. 

KINDS  OF  METRE.  The  number  of  stresses  in  a 
line  determines  its  measure.  A  verse  of  one  foot 
is  called  a  monometer;  of  two,  a  dimeter;  of  three, 
a  trimeter;  of  four,  a  tetrameter;  of  five,  a  pentam- 
eter; of  six,  hexameter.  Browning's  opening  lines 

12 


POETICS 


to  "  Pippa  Passees  "  illustrate  all  measures  but  one, 
from  monometer  to  hexameter,  inclusive: 

Day! 

Faster  and  more  fast 

O'er  night's  brim  day  boils  at  last: 

Put  forth  one  wavelet,  then  another,  curled, 
Till  the  whole  sunrise,  not  to  be  suppressed, 
Rose,  reddened,  and  its  seething  breast 
Flickered  in  bounds,  grew  gold,  then  overflowed  the 
world. 

Longer  measures  are  usually  divided,  a  heptam- 
eter  appearing  as  two  verses — a  tetrameter  and  a 
trimeter,  as: 

>        x    |     /         x     |  >       x|>         x 
Ye   banks   and  braes   o'   bonny   Boon, 

'  X      |     >  X          |      >  X 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae   fair. 

In  place  of  an  octameter,  two  tetrameters  are  often 
written,  as: 

'  X       |       '  X       |        >  X|'  X 

The  tide   is   high   and   stormy   beams 

x  1 1  ,        x    |      /x     |    /   |      x 
Of   sunlight   scud   across   the    down. 

Sometimes  a  line  lacks  a  syllable,  or  has  an  extra 
one,  either  at  the  beginning  or  at  the  end;  the  one 
case  is  called  catalectic;  the  other,  hypercatalectic. 
Examples  in  the  order  stated  are : 

x        '  |      x/  x 

Touch  us  gently,   Time. 

'  x    j     /  x     I      /         x|/  x|' 

Then  steal   away,   give   little  warning. 
13 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

THE  CAESURA.  In  reading  poetry  aloud,  one  nat- 
urally makes  a  pause  at  the  end  of  a  line  and  also 
at  certain  points  in  the  line.  This  pause  is  known 
as  the  caesura,  and  is  usually,  but  not  always,  marked 
by  punctuation.  It  may  occur  at  any  place  in  the 
verse,  but  tends  toward  the  middle.  A  line  may 
have  two  or  more  caesuras.  The  following  will  illus- 
trate these  points: 

Misery,  |  my  sweetest  friend,  |  oh !  |  weep  no  more. 
I  hear  the  fruitful  stream  |  lapsing  along. 


In  shifting  this  point  so  as  to  bring  out  the  mel- 
ody of  his  lines,  the  artistic  poet  exercises  his  finest 
cunning.  Milton  was  a  master  of  the  caesura. 

ANALYSIS  OP  FORMS.  In  analyzing  poetic  forms 
one  should  give  the  kind  of  feet,  the  number  of 
feet  in  the  line,  the  number  of  lines  in  the  stanza, 
and  the  rhyme  order.  If  there  is  a  mixture,  the  pre- 
vailing foot  determines  the  type.  If  there  is  a 
difficulty  in  deciding  without  actual  count, — as  is 
sometimes  the  case  in  the  most  artistic  of  poems, — 
let  the  effect  produced  be  observed.  Illustrations 
follow: 

Tiger!  Tiger!  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Framed  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

The  poem  of  which  this  is  a  stanza  would  be  de- 
14 


POETICS 

scribed  as  trochaic  tetrameter,  catalectic,  in  quat- 
rains rhymed  aa  bb. 

"  Traveler,  what  lies  over  the  hill  ? 

Traveler,  tell  to  me: 
I  am  only  a  child — from  the  window-sill 
Over  I  cannot  see." 

In  this  stanza  there  are  four  kinds  of  feet,  but  the 
effect  is  dactylic.  Tennyson's  matchless  lyric  of 
grief  has  an  anapestic  movement: 

Break!  break!  break! 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  0  Sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me! 

The  first  line  of  this  poem  has  but  three  sylla- 
bles, but  each  is  accented.  The  unstressed  syllables 
are  represented  by  what  is  termed  the  compensating 
pause.  If  x  indicates  unrhymed  verses,  this  poem 
would  be  characterized  as  trimeter,  of  anapestic 
effect,  in  quatrains  rhymed  xaxa,  the  third  line 
hypercatalectic.  However,  the  corresponding  line  in 
the  second  stanza  is  full  trimeter ;  and  in  the  fourth, 
full  tetrameter. 

Exercises  in  scansion  are  suggested  in  connection 
with  the  poems  in  this  volume. 


15 


II 

DIVISIONS   OF   POETEY 

NARRATIVE  POETRY  tells  of  the  deeds  of  other 
men.  It  is  objective.  In  it  the  poet's  individuality 
is  obscured.  Homer  is  so  veiled  behind  his  works 
that  his  very  existence  has  been  questioned.  Under 
the  division  of  Narrative  Poetry  fall, — 

The  Epic:  a  long  poem  with  a  noble  theme,  set 
forth  in  fitting  language.  "  Paradise  Lost "  is  the 
noblest  English  epic. 

The  Metrical  Eomance:  the  name  explains  itself. 
Longfellow's  "  Evangeline  "  and  Tennyson's  "  Prin- 
cess "  are  notable  examples. 

The  Ballad:  a  short,  ringing  narrative  poem. 
Tennyson's  "Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade"  is  a 
fine  one.  If  the  characters  of  the  story  speak  for 
themselves  the  poem  is  a  dramatic  ballad;  and  if 
feeling  becomes  more  pronounced  than  narration, 
the  result  is  a  lyrical  ballad. 

The  Descriptive  Poem:  objects  rather  than  events 
are  treated.  Thomson's  "  Seasons "  illustrates. 

There  are  further  divisions,  such  as  the  Pastoral 
Poem,  the  Idyll,  the  Mock-Epic,  the  Humorous 
Epic,  etc.,  the  names  of  which  indicate  their  spheres. 

LYRIC  POETRY  reveals  the  emotions  of  the  writer 
— is  subjective.  In  it  the  poet's  personality  stands 
out.  Pindar,  the  great  lyric  poet,  is  immortal,  while 
the  songs  he  sang  are  unknown  to  the  vast  majority 
of  mankind.  Lyrics  are  of  several  types,  and  are 
classified  with  regard  to  the  feeling  under  which 
they  were  composed. 

The  Sacred  Lyric:  voices  religious  fervor.  It 
16 


POETICS 


is  well  represented  in  Cardinal  Newman's  "Lead, 
Kindly  Light,"  a  song  that  adds  a  grace  to  many  a 
hymnody. 

The  Patriotic  Lyric:  the  inspiration  for  this  is 
love  of  country.  "  The  Star-Spangled  Banner/'  by 
Key,  and  "  America,"  by  Smith,  illustrate.  Under 
this  head  come  also  War  Lyrics,  those  fierce  out- 
bursts of  passion  such  as  Randall's  "Maryland" 
and  de  I'Isle's  "Marseillaise/' 

The  Love  Lyric:  this  is  the  most  common  type? 
The  lyric  is  at  home  in  this  province,  and  has  been 
since  the  days  of  the  troubadour  and  minnesinger, 
some  six  hundred  years  ago.  Its  range  is  as  wide  as 
the  moods  love  inspires, — from  rapture  to  despair; 
— as  Chaucer  puts  it, — 

"  Now  up,  now  doun,  as  bokets  in  a  welle." 

From  grave  to  gay  are  Burns's  "Highland  Mary," 
Sidney's  "  My  True  Love  Hath  My  Heart,"  and  Ben 
Jonson's  "To  Celia."  When  death  is  the  central 
theme  the  poem  is  a  Lyric  of  Grief. 

Nature  Lyric:  the  scope  of  this,  too,  is  wide- 
reaching,  for  it  comprehends  not  only  such  simple 
strains  as  Browning's  "  The  Year's  at  the  Spring," 
but  such  involved  poems  as  Milton's  "  L' Allegro  " 
and  "  II  Penseroso,"  in  which  the  analogies  between 
nature  and  life  are  traced  out. 

The  Eeflective  Lyric:  the  philosophical  element 
pervades  this  type,  and  therefore  good  examples  of 
it  are  rare;  for  it  is  in  danger  of  verging  into 
didacticism,  and  that  is  not  poetry.  Still  there  are 
purely  reflective  poems  of  exalted  feeling,  such,  for 
instance,  as  Matthew  Arnold's  "  Rugby  Chapel " 
and  George  Eliot's  "  Choir  Invisible." 

The  Convivial  Lyric,  a  drinking  song  (also  called 

17 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Anacreontic  verse,  from  Anacreon,  the  master  of 
this  kind  of  writing).  One  of  the  finest  in  the 
language  is  Shakespeare's  "Cup  Us  Till  the  World 
Go  Bound."  One  or  two  notable  illustrations  ap- 
pear in  this  book,  pp.  36,  37. 

The  Lyric  of  Fancy:  pure  imagination  is  the  sub- 
stance whereof  this  is  wrought,  and  it  must  be 
clothed  with  exquisite  grace.  Ariel's  songs  in  "  The 
Tempest,"  "Full  Fathom  Five  Thy  Father  Lies" 
and  "  Where  the  Bee  Sucks  "  embody  these  essen- 
tials. 

The  Humorous  Lyric:  no  better  instance  of  this 
need  be  sought  for  than  "  Contentment,"  by  Oliver 
Wendell  Holmes. 

The  Lyric  of  Praise  has  for  its  theme  the  lauda- 
tion of  some  individual.  Palmer's  "  Stonewall 
Jackson's  Way,"  included  in  this  study,  p.  125,  is  one. 

Society  Verse :  a  light,  graceful  treatment  of  so- 
ciety trifles.  The  periodicals  of  to-day  are  flooded 
with  them. 

Lyrics  may  be  classified  also,  as  to  form,  into  Ode, 
Sonnet,  Song,  Rondeau,  Rondel,  Triolet,  Ballade, 
Villanelle,  etc.  Of  these,  the  Ode  and  the  Song  as- 
sume many  a  form;  the  others  have  more  or  less 
prescribed  limits.  Such  of  these  forms  as  are  rep- 
resented in  this  book  will  be  discussed  in  the  notes 
under  them;  as  for  the  others,  the  student  is  re- 
ferred to  some  treatise  on  poetics. 

DRAMATIC  POETRY.  The  Drama  is  written  to  be 
acted, — to  represent  before  the  eyes  human  life  in 
its  hopes  and  fears,  rapture  and  despair.  Hence 
into  its  composition  may  enter  all  the  elements  that 
go  to  make  literature.  It  is  divided  into  Tragedy, 
Comedy,  and  Reconciling-Drama. 

Tragedy  moves  on  to  some  fatal  issue.  "  Ham- 
let" is  one  example. 

18 


POETICS 


Comedy  is  of  a  light,  amusing  nature,  and  holds 
up  the  foibles  and  frailties  of  society  and  the  ludi- 
crous accidents  of  life.  "As  You  Like  It"  is  a 
type. 

Keconciling-Drama  threatens  a  tragic  close,  but 
at  the  last  averts  it.  "The  Merchant  of  Venice" 
is  an  example. 

The  poems  in  these  pages  are  almost  all  lyrics. 
In  studying  each  certain  points  should  be  especially 
observed : 

The  Mood:  is  it  tender,  hopeful,  morbid,  grave, 
tragic,  etc.? 

The  Movement:  is  it  majestic,  tripping,  vigorous, 
regular,  halting,  etc.? 

The  Sound:  is  it  alliterative,  sibilant,  musical, 
sonorous,  harsh,  etc.? 

Seek  to  extend  each  of  these  lists  so  as  to  char- 
acterize accurately  each  poem. 

Then,  too,  the  theme  should  be  stated,  after  the 
poem  has  been  classified.  If  it  is  a  patriotic  lyric 
its  theme  may  be  love  for  state  engendered  by  her 
heroic  deeds;  or  love  for  country  roused  at  threat- 
ened invasion. 

The  diction  should  be  characterized  and  the 
stanza  structure  and  rhyme  order  indicated.  Nota- 
ble passages,  or  even  entire  poems,  should  be  com- 
mitted to  memory.  It  is  better,  however,  not  to 
examine  each  poem  from  all  these  points  of  view  at 
the  same  recitation.  Such  a  process  might  become 
tedious  or  confusing.  Let  one  or  two  phases  engage 
the  attention  for  several  successive  days, — the  mood 
and  movement,  for  instance ;  then  take  up  the  sound, 
the  classification,  etc. 


19 


St.  George  Tucker 

1752-1828 

Mr.  Tucker  was  a  native  of  the  Bermudas.  In 
early  life  he  came  to  Virginia,  where  he  received  his 
education,  finishing  the  course  at  William  and  Mary. 
He  took  up  the  law  as  a  profession,  and  after  practic- 
ing in  the  Colonial  courts  a  while  became  a  judge  of 
the  General  Court  of  Virginia.  Later  he  was  chosen 
professor  of  law  in  William  and  Mary,  from  which 
institution  he  received  the  degree  of  LL.  D. 

He  was  the  author  of  numerous  law  treatises, 
dramas,  and  poems.  Chiefly  upon  these  last  his  fame 
rests. 

RESIGNATION,   OK  DAYS 
OF  MY  YOUTH 


Days  of  my  youth, 

Ye  have  glided  away ; 
Hairs  of  my  youth, 

Ye  are  frosted  and  gray; 
Eyes  of  my  youth,  B 

Your  keen  sight  is  no  more; 
Cheeks  of  my  youth, 

Ye  are  furrowed  all  o'er, 
Strength  of  my  youth, 

All  your  vigor  is  gone;  10 

Thoughts  of  my  youth, 

Your  gay  visions  are  flown. 
20 


ST.  GEORGE  TUCKER 


II 

Days  of  my  youth, 

I  wish  not  your  recall; 
Hairs  of  my  youth,  15 

Fm  content  ye  should  fall; 
Eyes  of  my  youth, 

You  much  evil  have  seen; 
Cheeks  of  my  youth, 

Bathed  in  tears  have  you  been;      20 
Thoughts  of  my  youth, 

You  have  led  me  astray; 
Strength  of  my  youth, 

Why  lament  your  decay? 

Ill 

Days  of  my  age,  25 

Ye  will  shortly  be  past; 
Pains  of  my  age, 

Yet  a  while  ye  can  last; 
Joys  of  my  age, 

In  true  wisdom  delight;  30 

Eyes  of  my  age, 

Be  religion  your  light; 
Thoughts  of  my  age, 

Dread  ye  not  the  cold  sod; 
Hopes  of  my  age,  35 

Be  ye  fixed  on  your  God. 

A  reflective  lyric.    What  mood  pervades  it  ?    What 
is  its  object?    Does  it  attain  it? 


21 


Washington  Allston 

1779-1843 

A  South  Carolinian  by  birth,  Mr.  Allston  removed 
to  Ehode  Island  in  boyhood.  He  was  graduated  at 
Harvard,  and  went  abroad  to  study  painting.  For 
some  years  he  resided  in  England,  and  during  this 
period  produced  his  best  pictures.  "  The  Dead  Man 
Kevived,"  "Uriel  in  the  Sun/'  and  "Jacob's  Feast" 
represent  him  best  in  art. 

His  writings  are  "  The  Sylphs  of  the  Seasons,  and 
Other  Poems";  "Monaldi,  a  Tale";  "Lectures  on 
Art,  and  Poems,"  etc.  He  was  closely  connected 
with  the  beginnings  of  art  and  literature  in  America. 

AMERICA    TO    GREAT   BRITAIN 

All  hail !  thou  noble  land, 

Our  fathers'  native  soil ! 
Oh,  stretch  thy  mighty  hand, 
Gigantic  grown  by  toil, 

O'er  the  vast  Atlantic  wave  to  our  shore !        5 
For  thou  with  magic  might 
Canst  reach  to  where  the  light 
Of  Phoebus  travels  bright 
The  world  o'er! 

The  genius  of  our  clime,  10 

From  his  pine-embattled  steep, 

Shall  hail  the  guest  sublime, 
While  the  Tritons  of  the  deep 
22 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON 


With  their  conches  the  kindred  league  shall 

proclaim. 

Then  let  the  world  combine,  ** 

O'er  the  main  our  naval  line 
Like  the  Milky-Way  shall  shine 
Bright  in  fame ! 

Though  ages  long  have  passed 

Since  our  fathers  left  their  home,     20 
Their  pilot  in  the  blast, 

O'er  untravelled  seas  to  roam, 
Yet  lives  the  blood  of  England  in  our  veins ! 
And  shall  we  not  proclaim 
That  blood  of  honest  fame  25 

Which  no  tyranny  can  tame 
By  its  chains? 

While  the  language  free  and  bold 

Which  the  bard  of  Avon  sung, 
In  which  our  Milton  told  30 

How  the  vault  of  Heaven  rung 
When  Satan,  blasted,  fell  with  his  host; — 
While  this,  with  reverence  meet, 
Ten  thousand  echoes  greet, 
From  rock  to  rock  repeat  tt 

Round  our  coast ; — 

While  the  manners,  while  the  arts, 
That  mould  a  nation's  soul, 
Still  cling  around  our  hearts, — 

Between  let  Ocean  roll, 
Our  joint  communion  breaking  with  the  Sun: 
Yet  still  from  either  beach 
The  voice  of  blood  shall  reach, 
More  audible  than  speech, 

"  We  are  one."  45 

23 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

A  patriotic  lyric.  State  its  exact  theme.  What 
prophetic  touches  in  it  seem  to  have  been  fulfilled 
by  recent  events  ? 

1.  What  figure?  8.  Meaning  of  Phcebus?  8,  9. 
Another  way  of  saying,  "  The  sun  never  sets  on 
England's  dominions."  10.  Freedom  is  "  the  genius 
of  our  clime."  13.  The  Tritons  were  fabled  creatures 
of  the  sea,  heralding  on  their  conch  shells  the  ap- 
proach of  Neptune.  17.  Is  the  simile  forceful?  29. 
Explain  "  bard  of  Avon."  31,  32.  Allusion  to  what 
work  of  Milton?  40,41.  Give  the  thought. 


Francis  Scott  Key 

1780-1843 

The  author  of  the  lyric  below,  thus  far  the  best 
of  our  national  songs,  was  born  in  Maryland,  but 
spent  most  of  his  life  in  Washington,  where  he  was 
attorney  for  the  District  of  Columbia. 

The  story  of  the  poem  is  as  follows :  Mr.  Key  had 
visited  a  British  ship  in  Baltimore  harbor  to  procure 
the  release  of  a  friend,  held  prisoner  on  board,  and 
was  not  permitted  to  leave  until  after  the  attack  on 
Fort  McHenry.  The  bombardment  ceased  during  the 
night,  but  he  did  not  know  the  result  until  the  next 
morning,  when  he  saw  the  banner  still  floating  on 
the  battlements.  While  aboard  this  vessel  the  now 
notable  lines  were  written, — first  on  the  back  of  an 
old  envelope.  When  the  author  returned  to  Balti- 
more he  revised  them,  and  gave  them  to  Captain 
Eades,  who  had  participated  in  the  battle  of  North 
Point.  Eades  had  them  printed,  and  a  copy  fell 
into  the  hands  of  an  actor,  who  sang  them  for  the 
first  time  to  the  air,  "  Anacreon  in  Heaven."  They 
were  received  with  wild  applause,  and  were  immedi- 
ately taken  up  and  sung  all  over  the  country. 

A  collection  of  Key's  poems  was  published  in  New 
York,  1857,  with  an  introduction  by  Roger  B.  Taney. 
Some  years  since  James  Lick  bequeathed  $60,000 
for  a  monument  to  the  author  of  the  song.  This 
memorial,  executed  by  Story,  in  Rome,  stands  in 
Golden  Gate  Park,  San  Francisco. 

25 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 


THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER 

Oh !  say,  can  you  see  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 
What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last 

gleaming  ? 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars  through  the 

clouds  of  the  fight 
O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched,  were  so  gallantly 

streaming ! 
And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in 

air,  6 

Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still 

there; 

0,  say,  does  that  Star-Spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ? 

On  that  shore  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  the 

deep, 

Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  re- 
poses, 10 
What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  towering 

^  steep, 

As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals,  now  discloses? 
Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam, 
In  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  on  the  stream; 
'Tis  the  Star-Spangled  banner ;  0,  long  may  it  wave  15 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 

And  where  is  that  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore 
That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion 

A  home  and  a  country  should  leave  us  no  more? 
Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  footsteps' 
pollution.  20 

26 


FRANCIS    SCOTT   KEY 


No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 
From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave; 
And  the  Star-Spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

Oh !  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand          25 

Between  their  loved  home  and  the  war's  desolation ! 

Blest  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  heaven-rescued 

land 
Praise  the  Power  that  hath  made  and  preserved  us 

a  nation! 

Then  conquer  we  must,  when  our  cause  it  is  just, 
And  this  be  our  motto — "  In  God  is  our  Trust " — 30 
And  the  Star-Spangled  "banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

Compare  the  theme  in  this  with  that  in  Allston's, 
pp.  22,  23.  What  type  of  lyric  is  this?  What  is  the 
measure  ? 

6.  "Gave  proof  "—how  ?  12.  A  good  picture. 
17.  "  That  band  "—the  British.  20.  A  vigorous  line. 
21.  Explain  "hireling  and  slave."  27.  Criticise  the 
movement. 


Richard  Henry  Wilde 

1789-1847 

The  author  of  these  well-known  lines  came  from 
Ireland.  Poverty  was  his  by  inheritance,  but  through 
his  own  efforts  he  arose  to  a  position  of  distinction 
in  law  and  in  letters.  He  first  lived  in  Georgia, 
when  he  became  the  Attorney-General  of  the  State, 
and,  later,  its  representative  in  Congress.  After- 
wards he  moved  to  New  Orleans  and  occupied  a 
chair  in  the  University  of  Louisiana.  While  hold- 
ing this  position  he  died  of  yellow  fever. 

The  accompanying  lyric,  first  entitled  "The  La- 
ment of  the  Captive,"  is  a  fragment  of  an  epic  which 
the  author  planned  on  the  life  and  the  experiences 
of  his  brother,  James  Wilde,  in  the  Seminole  war. 
It  was  suggested  by  the  story  of  Juan  Ortez,  the 
last  survivor  of  the  ill-fated  expedition  of  Narvaez. 
Anthony  Barclay  translated  the  lines  into  Greek, 
and  the  North  American  Review  surmised  that  they 
were  from  a  Greek  ode  by  Alcasus.  Mr.  Barclay 
subsequently  wrote  "  An  Authentic  Account  of 
Wilde's  Alleged  Plagiarism,"  which  was  published  by 
the  Georgia  Historical  Society  in  1871. 

Mr.  Wilde  was  a  student  in  Italian  literature,  his 
main  work  being  "  Conjectures  and  Researches  Con- 
cerning the  Love,  Madness,  and  Imprisonment  of 
Torquato  Tasso."  This  contains  graceful  translations 
from  that  Italian  poet.  He  wrote  original  poems 
for  the  magazines,  and  left  an  unfinished  Life  of 
Dante,  together  with  translations  of  Italian  lyrics. 

28 


RICHARD   HENRY   WILDE 


These  have  not  been  published,  but  a  completed  poem, 
"Hesperia,"  edited  by  his  son,  appeared  in  Boston 
in  1867. 


MY  LIFE  IS  LIKE  THE  SUMMER  ROSE 

My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose, 

That  opens  to  the  morning  sky, 
And  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close, 
Is  scattered  on  the  ground  to  die; 
Yet  on  that  rose's  humble  bed  5 

The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  shed 
As  though  she  wept  such  waste  to  see; 
But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me ! 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf 

Which  trembles  in  the  moon's  pale  ray,      10 
Its  hold  is  frail,  its  date  is  brief, 

Restless,  and  soon  to  pass  away; 
Yet  when  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade, 
The  parent  tree  will  mourn  its  shade, 
The  wind  bewail  the  leafless  tree;  16 

But  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  for  me ! 

My  life  is  like  the  prints  which  feet 
Have  left  on  Tampa's  desert  strand, 

Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat 

Their  trace  will  vanish  from  the  sand;      20 

Yet  still,  as  grieving  to  efface 

All  vestige  of  the  human  race, 

On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the  sea; 

But  none,  alas !  shall  mourn  for  me ! 

Classify  this  lyric.    What  is  its  stanza  structure? 
29 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Its  meter  and  kind  of  feet  ?  Its  rhyme  order  ?  Notice 
the  felicity  of  the  simile  in  each  stanza,  and  the  turn 
at  "  yet "  in  the  middle.  Discuss  the  unity  of  the 
song. 

11.  Observe  the  fine  use  of  "date."     18.  What 
fine  musical  phrase? 


George  Denison  Prentice 
1802-1870 

Mr.  Prentice  was  born  in  Connecticut,  and  taught 
school  at  an  early  age.  He  was  graduated  at  Brown 
and,  completing  his  course  in  law,  was  admitted  to 
the  bar.  He  never  practiced  his  profession,  however, 
his  inclination  being  toward  journalism.  He  edited 
the  Connecticut  Mirror  and,  afterwards,  the  New 
England  WeeUy  Review.  Moving  to  Louisville, 
Ky.,  he  became  editor  of  the  Louisville  Journal, 
and  made  that  paper  a  powerful  advocate  of  the 
Whig  party.  He  resigned  as  editor,  but  continued 
contributions  to  the  paper  until  it  was  consoli- 
dated with  the  Courier,  forming  the  Courier-Journal 
of  to-day. 

He  furnished  a  column  of  wit  and  humor  to  the 
New  York  Ledger  for  several  years,  and  wrote 
many  poems,  which  have  been  collected  and  pub- 
lished, with  a  biography,  by  John  James  Piatt. 
"  Prenticeana "  is  the  title  of  a  volume  made  up 
of  his  pithy  sayings.  He  did  more,  possibly,  than 
any  one  else  to  encourage  authorship  in  the  South. 
A  life-size  marble  statue  oi  him  stands  above  the 
entrance  to  the  Courier- Journal  building  in  Louis- 
ville. 

THE  CLOSING  YEAR 

'Tis  midnight's  holy  hour — and  silence  now 

Is  brooding,  like  a  gentle  spirit,  o'er 

The  still  and  pulseless  world.    Hark!  on  the  winds, 

The  bell's  deep-notes  are  swelling.    'Tis  the  knell 

Of  the  departed  year.  5 

31 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

No  funeral  train 

Is  sweeping  past ;  yet  on  the  stream  and  wood, 
With  melancholy  light,  the  moonbeams  rest, 
Like  a  pale,  spotless  shroud ;  the  air  is  stirred, 
As  by  a  mourner's  sigh ;  and  on  yon  cloud, 
That  floats  so  still  and  placidly  through  heaven, 
The  spirits  of  the  seasons  seem  to  stand — 
Young  Spring,  bright   Summer,  Autumn's  solemn 

form, 

And  Winter,  with  his  aged  locks — and  breathe 
In  mournful  cadences,  that  come  abroad  15 

Like  the  far  wind  harp's  wild  and  touching  wail, 
A  melancholy  dirge  o'er  the  dead  Year, 
Gone  from  the  earth  forever. 

'Tis  a  time 

For  memory  and  for  tears.    Within  the  deep,  20 

Still  chambers  of  the  heart  a  spectre  dim, 
Whose  tones  are  like  the  wizard  voice  of  Time, 
Heard  from  the  tomb  of  ages,  pointc  its  cold 
And  solemn  finger  to  the  beautiful 
And  holy  visions  that  have  passed  away  25 

And  left  no  shadow  of  their  loveliness 
On  the  dead  waste  of  life.     That  spectre  lifts 
The  coffin-lid  of  hope,  and  joy,  and  love 
And,  bending  mournfully  above  the  pale, 
Sweet    forms    that    slumber    there,    scatters    dead 
flowers  30 

O'er  what  has  passed  to  nothingness. 

The  year 

Has  gone,  and,  with  it,  many  a  glorious  throng 
Of  happy  dreams.     Its  mark  is  on  each  brow, 
Its  shadow  on  each  heart.    In  its  svdft  course          35 
It  waved  its  sceptre  o'er  the  beautiful, 


GEORGE   DENISON   PRENTICE 

And  they  are  not.     It  laid  its  pallid  hand 

Upon  the  strong  man,  and  the  haughty  form 

Is  fallen,  and  the  flashing  eye  is  dim. 

It  trod  the  hall  of  revelry,  where  thronged  40 

The  bright  and  joyous,  and  the  tearful  wail 

Of  stricken  ones  is  heard,  where  erst  the  song 

And  reckless  shout  resounded.     It  passed  o'er 

The  battle  plain,  where  sword,  and  spear,  and  shield 

Flashed  in  the  light  of  midday — and  the  strength  45 

Of  serried  hosts  is  shivered,  and  the  grass, 

Green  from  the  soil  of  carnage,  waves  above 

The  crushed  and  mouldering  skeleton.     It  came 

And  faded  like  a  wreath  of  mist  at  eve; 

Yet,  ere  it  melted  in  the  viewless  air,  60 

It  heralded  its  millions  to  their  home 

In  the  dim  land  of  dreams. 

Remorseless  Time!  — 

Fierce  spirit  of  the  glass  and  scythe !  what  power 
Can  stay  him  in  his  silent  course,  or  melt  BB 

His  iron  heart  to  pity?     On,  still  on 
He  presses  and  forever.     The  proud  bird, 
The  condor  of  the  Andes,  that  can  soar 
Through  heaven's  unfathomable  depths,  or  brave 
The  fury  of  the  Northern  hurricane  60 

And  bathe  his  plumage  in  the  thunder's  home, 
Furls  his  broad  wings  at  nightfall  and  sinks  down 
To  rest  upon  his  mountain  crag — but  Time 
Knows  not  the  weight  of  sleep  or  weariness, 
And  night's  deep  darkness  has  no  chain  to  bind      65 
His  rushing  pinion.    Revolutions  sweep 
O'er  earth,  like  troubled  visions  o'er  the  breast 
Of  dreaming  sorrow;  cities  rise  and  sink, 
Like  bubbles  on  the  water;  fiery  isles 
Spring,  blazing,  from  the  ocean,  and  go  back  70 

S3 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

To  their  mysterious  caverns ;  mountains  rear 

To  heaven  their  bald  and  blackened  cliffs,  and  bow 

Their  tall  heads  to  the  plain;  new  empires  rise, 

Gathering  the  strength  of  hoary  centuries, 

And  rush  down  like  the  Alpine  avalanche,  l5 

Startling  the  nations;  and  the  very  stars, 

Yon  bright  and  burning  blazonry  of  God, 

Glitter  a  while  in  their  eternal  depths, 

And,  like  the  Pleiad,  loveliest  of  their  train, 

Shoot  from  their  glorious  spheres,  and  pass  away,  *° 

To  darkle  in  the  trackless  void;  yet  Time, 

Time,  the  tomb-builder,  holds  his  fierce  career, 

Dark,  stern,  all  pitiless,  and  pauses  not 

Amid  the  mighty  wrecks  that  strew  his  path, 

To  sit  and  muse,  like  other  conquerors,  85 

Upon  the  fearful  ruin  he  has  wrought. 

A  reflective  poem  in  blank  verse.  Read  it  aloud 
and  note  the  majestic  movement  of  the  lines.  In 
this  respect  it  is  to  be  compared  with  Bryant's 
"  Thanatopsis."  What  figure  abounds  ?  Is  it  used 
ineffectively  at  any  point? 

46.  Explain  "  serried  hosts/'  56.  "Iron  heart" 
is  what  figure  ?  69.  "  Fiery  isle  " :  in  volcanic  belts 
islands  sometimes  heave  suddenly  above  the  surface 
of  the  sea;  and,  owing  to  their  loose  foundation, 
almost  as  suddenly  disappear.  71,  72.  The  slow 
process  of  mountain  formation  and  disintegration 
here  is  in  strong  contrast  to  the  foregoing;  but  both 
alike,  together  with  "new  empires"  and  "the  very 
stars,"  are  one  when  measured  with  Time.  73.  Any 
criticism  on  the  position  of  "  new  empires  "  in  this 
fine  climax?  79.  See  note  to  "The  Lost  Pleiad," 
by  Simms,  in  this  volume,  pp.  43,  44. 


Edward  Coate  Pinkney 
1802-1828 

James  Pinkney,  the  father  of  Edward  Coate  Pink- 
ney, was  Minister  to  the  Court  of  St.  James.  In 
London,  during  his  parents'  stay  there,  the  subject 
of  this  sketch  was  born.  The  first  nine  years  of  his 
life  were  spent  in  the  British  metropolis.  On  his 
father's  return  to  Baltimore,  the  family  home,  the 
boy  was  placed  in  college,  but  before  he  had  com- 
pleted his  course  he  entered  the  United  States  navy. 
Here  he  remained  six  years,  resigning  at  last  on 
account  of  a  quarrel  between  himself  and  a  superior 
officer.  After  this  episode  he  studied  law  and  was 
admitted  to  the  bar;  but,  as  has  often  been  the  case 
with  spirits  of  like  temperament,  he  grew  tired  of 
this  profession.  After  essaying  the  navy  again, 
with  the  patriots  of  Mexico,  he  returned  to  Balti- 
more, and  soon  after  was  appointed  professor  of 
rhetoric  and  belles-lettres  in  the  University  of 
Maryland — a  position  that  yielded  no  salary.  After 
a  short  while  he  was  chosen  editor  of  the  Mary- 
lander,  a  political  newspaper;  but  failing  health  soon 
resulted  in  death. 

A  thin  volume  of  poems,  published  in  1825,  em- 
bodies his  contribution  to  literature;  but  it  contains 
exquisite  work.  As  a  proof  of  this  it  is  sufficient  to 
state  that,  when  it  was  proposed  to  publish  biograph- 
ical sketches  of  five  of  America's  greatest  poets,  he 
was  chosen  as  one  of  the  number. 


85 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 


A  HEALTH 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone; 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon; 
To  whom  the  better  elements  5 

And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air, 

?Tis  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own, 

Like  those  of  morning  birds,  10 

And  something  more  than  melody 

Dwells  ever  in  her  words; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they, 

And  from  her  lips  each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burdened  bee  15 

Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 

Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her, 

The  measures  of  her  hours; 
Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy, 

The  freshness  of  young  flowers,  20 

And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft, 

So  fill  her,  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns, — 

The  idol  of  past  years. 

Of  her  bright  face,  one  glance  will  trace      25 

A  picture  on  the  brain, 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 

A  sound  must  long  remain; 
36 


EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY 

But  memory  such  as  mine  of  her 

So  very  much  endears,  30 

When  death  is  nigh  my  latest  sigh 

Will  not  be  life's,  but  hers. 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex  35 

The  seeming  paragon — 
Her  health !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood 

Some  more  of  such  a  frame, 
That  life  might  be  all  poetry, 

And  weariness  a  name.  40 


SONG 

We  break  the  glass,  whose  sacred  wine 

To  some  beloved  health  we  drain, 
Lest  future  pledges,  less  divine, 

Should  e'er  the  hallowed  toy  profane : 
And  thus  I  broke  a  heart  that  poured  5 

Its  tide  of  feelings  out  for  thee, 
In  draughts,  by  after  times  deplored, 

Yet  dear  to  memory. 

But  still  the  old  empassioned  ways 

And  habits  of  my  mind  remain,  10 

And  still  unhappy  light  displays 

Thine  image  chambered  in  my  brain; 
And  still  it  looks  as  when  the  hours 

Went  by  like  flights  of  living  birds, 
Or  that  soft  chain  of  spoken  flowers  15 

And  airy  gems,  thy  words. 

37 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

A  HEALTH.  A  convivial  lyric.  What  is  the 
rhyme  scheme?  Lines  one  and  seven  in  each  stanza 
have  an  internal  rhyme. 

17.  Is  the  rhyme  perfect? 

SONG.  Is  this  of  the  foregoing  type?  What  is 
its  metre?  Its  rhyme  order?  5.  "And  thus  I 
broke/'  etc. :  is  this  the  conclusion  of  a  simile  ? 


38 


William  Gilmore  Simms 

1806—1870 

Mr.  Simms  early  manifested  a  love  for  letters. 
His  scholastic  training  was  received  in  his  native  city, 
Charleston,  S.  C.  He  first  thought  of  taking  up 
medicine  as  a  life  work,  but  turned  his  attention  to 
the  law.  This  he  never  practiced,  however. 

Simms  is  better  known  as  a  novelist  than  as  a  poet. 
He  wrote  voluminously, — poems,  novels,  dramas,  his- 
tories, book  reviews,  editorials,  etc.  His  best  known 
poem  is  "Atalantis";  "Yemassee"  is  one  of  his 
best  novels.  He  published  "Lyrical  and  Other 
Poems'5  in  1826;  and  twenty  years  later  another 
book  of  verse,  "  Areytos,  or  Songs  and  Ballads  of  the 
South/5  He  edited  various  journals,  and  did  much 
to  foster  a  literary  spirit  in  his  section  of  the  Union. 
Other  books  of  verse  by  him  are :  "  Southern  Pas- 
sages and  Pictures,"  "  Grouped  Thoughts  and  Scat- 
tered Fancies,"  "  Lays  of  the  Palmetto,"  etc.  Hayne, 
Timrod  and  others  found  in  him  a  sympathetic 
friend.  His  last  years  were  spent  in  a  heroic  fight 
against  want, — a  common  experience  throughout  the 
Southland  in  his  day.  A  fine  bust  of  him  adorns  the 
Battery,  in  his  native  city. 

THE   POET'S   VISION 

Upon  the  Poet's  soul  they  flash  forever, 
In  evening  shades,  these  glimpses  strange  and  sweet; 
They  fill  his  heart  betimes, — rthey  leave  him  never, 
And  haunt  his  steps  with  sounds  of  falling  feet; 

39 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

He  walks  beside  a  mystery  night  and  day;  6 

Still  wanders  where  the  sacred  spring  is  hidden; 
Yet,  would  he  take  the  seal  from  the  forbidden, 
Then  must  he  work  and  watch  as  well  as  pray  I 
How    work?    How    watch?    Beside    him — in    his 

way,— 
Springs  without  check  the  floVr  by  whose  choice 

spell,—  10 

More  potent  than  "  herb  moly," — he  can  tell 
•Where  the  stream  rises,  and  the  waters  play! — 
Ah !  spirits  call'd  avail  not !     On  his  eyes, 
Sealed  up  with  stubborn  clay,  the  darkness  lies. 

MARION' 
"THE  SWAMP  Fox" 

(From  the  Partisan) 

We  follow  where  the  Swamp  Fox  guides, 

His  friends  and  merry  men  are  we; 
And  when  the  troop  of  Tarleton  rides, 

We  burrow  in  the  cypress  tree. 
The  turfy  hammock  is  our  bed,  6 

Our  home  is  in  the  red  deer's  den, 
Our  roof,  the  tree-top  overhead, 

For  we  are  wild  and  hunted  men. 

We  fly  by  day,  and  shun  its  light, 

But,  prompt  to  strike  the  sudden  blow,      10 
We  mount  and  start  with  early  night, 

And  through  the  forest  track  our  foe. 
And  soon  he  hears  our  chargers  leap, 

The  flashing  sabre  blinds  his  eyes, 
And,  ere  he  drives  away  his  sleep,  1B 

And  rushes  from  his  camp,  he  dies. 
40 


WILLIAM   GILMORE    SIMMS 

Free  bridle-bit,  good  gallant  steed, 

That  will  not  ask  a  kind  caress, 
To  swim  the  Santee  at  our  need, 

When  on  his  heels  the  foemen  press, —    20 
The  true  heart  and  the  ready  hand, 

The  spirit  stubborn  to  be  free, 
The  twisted  bore,  the  smiting  brand, — 

And  we  are  Marion's  men,  you  see. 

Now  light  the  fire,  and  cook  the  meal,  2B 

The  last  perhaps  that  we  shall  taste; 
I  hear  the  Swamp  Fox  round  us  steal, 

And  that's  a  sign  we  move  in  haste. 
He  whistles  to  the  scouts,  and  hark ! 

You  hear  his  order  calm  and  low —  30 

Come,  wave  your  torch  across  the  dark, 

And  let  us  see  the  boys  that  go. 

We  may  not  see  their  forms  again, 

God  help  'em,  should  they  find  the  strife ! 
For  they  are  strong  and  fearless  men,          35 

And  make  no  coward  terms  for  life; 
They'll  fight  as  long  as  Marion  bids, 

And  when  he  speaks  the  word  to  shy, 
Then — not  till  then — they  turn  their  steeds, 

Through  thickening  shade  and  swamp  to 
fly.  40 

Now  stir  the  fire,  and  lie  at  ease, 

The  scouts  are  gone,  and  on  the  brush 
I  see  the  colonel  bend  his  knees, 

To  take  his  slumbers  too — but  hush ! 
He's  praying,  comrades ;  'tis  not  strange ;     45 

The  man  that's  fighting  day  by  day, 
May  well,  when  night  comes,  take  a  change, 

And  down  upon  his  knees  to  pray. 
41 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Break  up  that  hoe-cake,  boys,  and  hand 

The  sly  and  silent  jug  that's  there;  50 

I  love  not  it  should  idly  stand, . 

When  Marion's  men  have  need  of  cheer. 
'Tis  seldom  that  our  luck  affords 

A  stuff  like  this  we  just  have  quaffed, 
And  dry  potatoes  on  our  boards  55 

May  always  call  for  such  a  draught. 

Now  pile  the  brush  and  roll  the  log; 

Hard  pillow,  but  a  soldier's  head 
That's  half  the  time  in  brake  and  bog 

Must  never  think  of  softer  bed.  60 

The  owl  is  hooting  to  the  night, 

The  cooter  crawling  o'er  the  bank, 
And  in  that  pond  the  flashing  light 

Tells  where  the  alligator  sank. 

What !  'tis  the  signal !  start  so  soon,  65 

And  through  the  Santee  swamp  so  deep, 
Without  the  aid  of  friendly  moon, 

And  we,  Heaven  help  us !  half  asleep ! 
But  courage,  comrades!  Marion  leads, 

The  Swamp  Fox  takes  us  out  to-night;      70 
So  clear  your  swords,  and  spur  your  steeds, 

There's  goodly  chance,  I  think,  of  fight. 

We  follow  where  the  Swamp  Fox  guides, 

We  leave  the  swamp  and  cypress  tree, 
Our  spurs  are  in  our  coursers'  sides,  75 

And  ready  for  the  strife  are  we, — 
The  Tory  camp  is  now  in  sight, 

And  there  he  cowers  within  his  den, — 
He  hears  our  shouts,  he  dreads  the  fight, 

He  fears,  and  flies  from  Marion's  men.      80 


WILLIAM   GILMORE    SIMMS 


THE    LOST    PLEIAD 

Not  in  the  sky, 

Where  it  was  seen 

So  long  in  eminence  of  light  serene, — 

Nor  on  the  white  tops  of  the  glistening  wave, 

N*or  down  in  mansions  of  the  hidden  deep, 

Though  beautiful  in  green 

And  crystal,  its  great  caves  of  mystery, — 

Shall  the  bright  watcher  have 

Her  place,  and,  as  of  old,  high  station  keep ! 

Gone!  gone!  10 

Oh !  nevermore,  to  cheer 

The  mariner,  who  holds  his  course  alone 

On  the  Atlantic,  through  the  weary  night, 

When  the  stars  turn  to  watchers,  and  do  sleep, 

Shall  it  again  appear, 

With  the  sweet-loving  certainty  of  light, 

Down  shining  on  the  shut  eyes  of  the  deep ! 

The  upward-looking  shepherd  on  the  hills 

Of  Chaldea,  night-returning  with  his  flocks, 

He  wonders  why  her  beauty  doth  not  blaze,  20 

Gladding  his  gaze, — 

And,  from  his  dreary  watch  along  the  rocks, 

Guiding  him  homeward  o'er  the  perilous  ways ! 

How  stands  he  waiting  still,  in  a  sad  maze, 

Much  wondering,  while  the  drowsy  silence  fills        25 

The  sorrowful  vault ! — how  lingers,  in  the  hope  that 

night 

May  yet  renew  the  expected  and  sweet  light, 
So  natural  to  his  sight ! 
And  lone, 

Where,  at  the  first,  in  smiling  love  she  shone,        30 

43 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Brood  the  once  happy  circle  of  bright  stars: 

How  should  they  dream,  until  her  fate  was  known, 

That  they  were  ever  confiscate  to  death  ? 

That  dark  oblivion  the  pure  beauty  mars, 

And,  like  the  earth,  its  common  bloom  and  breath,  35 

That  they  should  fall  from  high; 

Their  lights  grow  blasted  by  a  touch,  and  die, 

All  their  concerted  springs  of  harmony 

Snapt  rudely,  and  the  generous  music  gone ! 

Ah !  still  the  strain  «° 

Of  wailing  sweetness  fills  the  saddening  sky; 
The  sister  stars,  lamenting  in  their  pain 
That  one  of  the  selected  ones  must  die, — 
Must  vanish,  when  most  lovely,  from  the  rest! 
Alas !  'tis  ever  thus  the  destiny.  45 

Even  Eapture's  song  hath  evermore  a  tone 
Of  wailing,  as  for  bliss  too  quickly  gone. 
The  hope  most  precious  is  the  soonest  lost, 
The  flower  most  sweet  is  first  to  feel  the  frost. 
Are  not  all  short-lived  things  the  loveliest?  50 

And,  like  the  pale  star,  shooting  down  the  sky, 
Look  they  not  ever  brightest,  as  they  fly 
From  the  lone  sphere  they  blest! 

THE  POET'S  VISION.  This  is  a  sonnet;  study  its 
structure.  11.  "Herb  moly":  a  fabulous  plant  of 
magic  potency,  said  by  Homer  to  have  been  given  to 
Ulysses  by  Mercury  that  he  might  break  with  it  the 
spell  of  Circe. 

MARION".  Of  what  class  is  this?  Francis  Marion 
was  called  the  "Swamp  Fox":  why  appropriately? 

3.  Who  was  Tarleton?  19.  Why  is  this  particular 
river  named?  23.  "Twisted  bore":  the  grooves  in 

44 


WILLIAM   GILMORE    SIMMS 

the  rifle  barrel ;  "  brand  " :  sword.  59.  "  Brake  and 
bog":  explain. 

THE  LOST  PLEIAD  :  an  ode.  Note  the  irregularity 
of  its  form. 

14.  Meaning?  16,  18,  19.  Does  his  fondness  for 
compounds  lead  to  a  bold  use?  30.  The  remaining 
six  "  brood  "  over  the  fate  of  their  sister.  Give  the 
thought  from  this  line  down  to  36.  36.  Mythology 
accounts  for  the  disappearance  of  the  star  in  several 
ways:  the  one  that  it  was  destroyed  by  lightning  is 
here  accepted.  37.  Justify  "concerted  springs  of 
harmony  snapt."  This  and  the  succeeding  line  are 
especially  fine.  44  to  the  close:  does  the  applica- 
tion add  to  the  art  of  the  poem  ?  Does  the  figure  at 
the  close  redeem  the  moralizing? 

The  Pleiades,  seven  in  number,  were  the  daugh- 
ters of  Atlas  and  Pleione.  They  hunted  with 
Diana.  On  one  of  these  hunting  occasions  Orion 
met  them ;  and,  being  enamored,  pursued  them.  They 
prayed  the  gods  to  change  their  forms,  and  Jupiter 
turned  them  first  into  pigeons,  afterward  into  a  con- 
stellation. 

It  requires  a  very  keen  sight  to  discern  in  this  con- 
stellation more  than  six  stars.  Hence,  as  seven  were 
mentioned,  the  ancients  naturally  concluded  that 
one  of  the  cluster  was  lost.  One  explanation  was 
that  noted  above.  Another  was  that  the  lost  Pleiad 
was  Electra,  who  withdrew  in  sorrow  at  the  fall  of 
Ilium  and  the  misfortunes  of  her  descendants,  Dar- 
danus  having  been  her  son.  Another  story  was  that 
the  missing  sister  was  Merope,  who  veiled  her  light 
because  of  shame  that  she  alone  had  married  a 
mortal. 


Edgar  Allan  Poe 

1809—1849 

Nothing  more  can  be  given  here  than  a  condensed 
statement  of  some  of  the  main  facts  regarding  the 
life  and  works  of  this,  in  some  respects,  most  not- 
ahle  American  writer.  It  would  require  a  volume  to 
treat  the  subject  with  any  measure  of  completeness. 
Such  volumes  have  been  prepared,  that  by  Professor 
Woodberry  about  as  impartial  and  satisfactory  as 
any. 

The  great-grandfather  of  Edgar,  John  Poe,  was  a 
descendant  from  one  of  the  officers  of  Cromwell.  He 
came  from  Ireland  to  Pennsylvania  about  1745.  A 
son  of  his,  David,  was  a  Eevolutionary  patriot,  and 
his  son  of  the  same  name  was  the  father  of  the  poet. 
This  David  Poe  was  educated  for  the  law,  but  went 
upon  the  stage,  and  in  1845  married  an  actress, 
Elizabeth  Arnold.  While  the  parents  were  filling  an 
engagement  at  the  Federal  Street  Theatre,  Boston, 
Edgar,  their  second  son,  was  born,  January  19,  1809. 

Being  left  an  orphan  at  two  years  of  age,  he  was 
adopted  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Allan,  of  Richmond;  hence 
Poe's  middle  name.  The  Allans  took  him  abroad  in 
1815  and  placed  him  in  school  near  London.  Five 
years  later  he  was  brought  back  to  Richmond  and 
was  sent  to  a  private  school  there.  He  showed 
marked  precocity  in  those  years.  In  1826  he  entered 
the  University  of  Virginia,  but  was  withdrawn  in  a 
year  and  placed  in  his  foster-father's  counting-room. 
Restless  in  this  position,  he  left  Richmond  to  seek 
his  fortune. 

46 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE 


Going  first  to  Boston,  he  put  forth  his  earliest 
venture,  "  Tamerlane,  and  Other  Poems,"  which  met 
with  no  response.  Next  he  enlisted  as  Edgar  A. 
Perry  in  the  United  States  army.  Presumably  tiring 
of  this  service,  he  made  his  whereabouts  known  to 
Mr.  Allan,  through  whose  efforts  he  was  released  and 
appointed  to  a  cadetship  in  the  United  States  Mili- 
tary Academy.  He  stood  well  at  West  Point  for 
a  while,  but  on  Mr.  Allan's  refusing  to  sanction  his 
resignation  he  purposely  brought  about  his  own  dis- 
missal. Meantime  he  had  published  a  second  col- 
lection, "  Al  Aaraaf,  Tamerlane,  and  Minor  Poems," 
which,  like  the  first,  created  no  impression.  Now, 
as  he  left  West  Point,  his  third  book  appeared.  It 
bore  the  title  "Poems"  and  was  issued  mainly 
through  the  subscriptions  of  his  fellow-students.  At 
this  the  silence  was  broken — it  did  elicit  ridicule. 

About  this  time  Poe  was  cut  entirely  adrift  from 
his  benefactors,  Mrs.  Allan  having  died  and  her  hus- 
band having  remarried.  Poe  went  to  Baltimore  and 
became  an  inmate  of  the  home  of  his  aunt,  Mrs. 
Clemm.  Soon  after  he  received  his  first  pronounced 
encouragement,  in  the  way  of  one  hundred  dollars 
from  the  Saturday  Visitor  for  his  story,  "A  MS. 
Found  in  a  Bottle."  He  worked,  later,  on  the 
Southern  Literary  Messenger,  and  gained  high  dis- 
tinction for  that  periodical.  In  1836  he  married  his 
cousin,  Virginia  Clemm,  a  child  of  thirteen ;  and  the 
next  year  went  to  New  York,  invited,  as  some  say, 
by  Dr.  Francis  L.  Hawkes  to  become  a  contributor  to 
the  recently  established  New  York  Review.  He 
furnished  only  one  article  for  this  journal;  but  dur- 
ing this  period  in  New  York  he  finished  his  "  Narra- 
tive of  Arthur  Gordon  Pym,"  which  had  been  par- 
tially published  in  the  Messenger.  He  moved  to 

47 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

and  fro, — to  Philadelphia,  back  to  New  York, — con- 
tributing to  periodicals  and  publishing  collections  of 
his  tales — always  with  the  hope  that  one  day  he  should 
have  a  magazine  of  his  own. 

When  "The  Eaven  and  Other  Poems"  appeared 
in  1845,  Poe  was  the  most  prominent  writer  of  the 
time;  but  his  wife's  health  was  fast  failing,  and  his 
own  constitution,  whipped  to  over-work,  was  speedily 
becoming  exhausted.  The  family  was  reduced  to 
poverty  and  moved  to  the  little  cottage  at  Fordham, 
near  New  York,  where  Mrs.  Poe  died.  Shattered 
in  health,  Poe  entered  upon  a  lecturing  tour  to  repair 
his  broken  fortune,  and  in  a  short  while  was  found 
dying  in  a  polling-place  in  Baltimore. 

A  marble  monument  stands  to  his  memory  in  Bal- 
timore; a  memorial  was  erected  to  him  in  the  Metro- 
politan Museum,  New  York;  and  within  the  last  few 
years  a  bronze  bust  of  him  was  unveiled,  with  appro- 
priate ceremonies,  at  the  University  of  Virginia,  and 
he  has  been  enrolled  among  the  notables  to  be  repre- 
sented in  the  Hall  of  Fame,  New  York  City. 

Without  doubt  he  was  the  greatest  poet,  essayist, 
critic,  and  romancer  the  South  has  brought  forth, — 
if,  indeed,  he  has  been  equalled  in  America.  His 
writings  have  been  translated  into  French,  German, 
Italian,  and  other  languages;  and  many  editions  in 
English  have  appeared. 

TO   HELEN 

Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 
Like  those  Nicean  barks  of  yore, 

That,  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 
The  weary,  way-worn  wanderer  bore 
To  his  own  native  shore. 
48 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE 


On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 

Thy  Naiad  airs  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece 

And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome.  10 

Lo!  in  yon  brilliant  window-niche 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand ! 
The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand, 

Ah !  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 

Are  Holy  Land !  15 


ISRAFEL 

And  the  angel  Israfel,  whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute, 
and  who  has  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures. — 
KORAN. 

In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 
"  Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute ; " 
None  sing  so  wildly  well 
As  the  angel  Israfel, 

And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell)  5 

Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 
Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above 
In  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamored  moon  10 

Blushes  with  love, 
While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 
(With  the  rapid  Pleiades,  even, 
.    Which  were  seven) 

Pauses  in  Heaven.  1B 

49 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 

And  the  other  listening  things) 

That  Israfeli's  fire 

Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings — 

The  trembling  living  wire 

Of  those  unusual  strings. 

But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 

Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty — 

Where  Love's  grown-up  God —  25 

Where  the  Houri  glances  are 

Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 

Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 

Therefore,  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest  30 

An  unimpassioned  song; 

To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest! 

Merrily  live,  and  long! 

The  ecstasies  above  35 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit — 
Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 
With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute — 
Well  may  the  stars  be  mute ! 

Yes,  heaven  is  thine;  but  this  40 

Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours ; 
Our  flowers  are  merely — flowers, 
And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 
Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 
50 


EDGAR!   ALLAN    POE 


If  I  could  dwell  45 

Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 

He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 

While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell    5e 
From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 

LENOKE 

Ah,  broken  is  the  golden  bowl !  the  spirit  flown  for- 
ever! 
Let  the  bell  toll ! — a  saintly  soul  floats  on  the  Stygian 

river; 
And,  Guy  De  Vere,  hast  fhou  no  tear? — weep  now 

or  nevermore! 
See,  on  yon  drear  and  rigid  bier  low  lies  thy  love, 

Lenore ! 
Come,  let  the  burial  rite  be  read — the  funeral  song 

be  sung:  5 

An  anthem  for  the  queenliest  dead  that  ever  died  so 

young, 
A  dirge  for  her  the  doubly  dead  in  that  she  died  so 

young.   , 

"  Wretches,  ye  loved  her  for  her  wealth  and  hated 
her  for  her  pride, 

And  when  she  fell  in  feeble  health,  ye  blessed  her — 
that  she  died ! 

How  shall  the  ritual,  then,  be  read  ?  the  requiem  how 
be  sung  10 

By  you — by  yours,  the  evil  eye, — by  yours,  the  slan- 
derous tongue 

That  did  to  death  the  innocence  that  died,  and  died 
so  young?  " 

si 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Peccavimus;  but  rave  not  thus!  and  let  a  Sabbath 

song 

Go  up  to  God  so  solemnly  the  dead  may  feel  no  wrong. 
The  sweet  Lenore  hath  gone  before,  with  Hope  that 

flew  beside, 
Leaving  thee  wild  for  the  dear  child  that  should  have 

been  thy  bride: 

For  her,  the  fair  and  debonair,  that  now  so  lowly  lies, 
The  life  upon  her  yellow  hair  but  not  within  her  eyes ; 
The  life  still  there,  upon  her  hair — the  death  upon 

her  eyes. 

"Avaunt!  avaunt!  from  fiends  below,  the  indignant 

ghost  is  riven — 
From  Hell  unto  a  high  estate  far  up  within  the 

Heaven — 
From  grief  and  groan,  to  a  golden  throne,  beside  the 

King  of  Heaven! 

Let  no  bell  toll,  then, — lest  her  soul,  amid  its  hal- 
lowed mirth, 
Should  catch  the  note  as  it  doth  float  up  from  the 

damned  Earth! 
And  I ! — to-night  my  heart  is  light ! — no  dirge  will 

I  upraise,  25 

But  waft  the  angel  on  her  flight  with  a  Paean  of  old 

days!" 


THE  HAUNTED  PALACE 

In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 
By  good  angels  tenanted, 

Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace — 
Eadiant  palace — reared  its  head. 
52 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE 


In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion,  8 

It  stood  there; 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair. 

Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow  10 

(This — all  this — was  in  the  olden 

Time  long  ago), 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid,        15 

A  winged  odor  went  away. 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley 

Through  two  luminous  windows  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically, 

To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law,  20 

Eound  about  a  throne  where,  sitting, 

Porphyrogene, 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing  25 

Was  the  fair  palace  door, 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing, 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing,  80 

In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 
Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate; 

(Ah,  let  us  mourn,  for  never  morrow  8B 

Shall  dawn  upon  him  desolate!) 
53 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

And  round  about  his  home  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed, 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed.  40 

And  travellers  now  within  that  valley 

Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 
Vast  forms  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody; 
While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river,  45 

Through  the  pale  door 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever, 

And  laugh — but  smile  no  more. 


THE  CONQUEROR  WORM 

Lo !  'tis  a  gala  night 

Within  the  lonesome  latter  years. 
An  angel  throng,  bewinged,  bedight 

In  veils,  and  drowned  in  tears, 
Sit  in  a  theatre  to  see  5 

A  play  of  hopes  and  fears, 
While  the  orchestra  breathes  fitfully 

The  music  of  the  spheres. 

Mimes,  in  the   form  of  God  on  high, 

Mutter  and  mumble  low,  10 

And  hither  and  thither  fly; 

Mere  puppets  they,  who  come  and  go 
At  bidding  of  vast  formless  things 

That  shift  the  scenery  to  and  fro, 
Flapping  from  out  their  condor  wings          15 

Invisible  Woe. 

54 


EDGAKl   ALLAN    POE 


That  motley  drama — oh,  be  sure 

It  shall  not  be  forgot ! 
With  its  Phantom  chased  for  evermore 

By  a  crowd  that  seize  it  not,  20 

Through  a  circle  that  ever  returneth  in 

To  the  self -same  spot; 
And  much  of  Madness,  and  more  of  Sin, 

And  Horror  the  soul  of  the  plot. 

But  see  amid  the  mimic  rout 

A  crawling  shape  intrude:  25 

A  blood-red  thing  that  writhes  from  out 

The  scenic  solitude! 
It  writhes — it  writhes ! — with  mortal  pangs 

The  mimes  become  its  food,  30 

And  seraphs  sob  at  vermin  fangs 

In  human  gore  imbued. 

Out — out  are  the  lights — out  all ! 

And  over  each  quivering  form 
The  curtain,  a  funeral  pall,  35 

Comes  down  with  the  rush  of  a  storm, 
While  the  angels,  all  pallid  and  wan, 

Uprising,  unveiling,  affirm 
That  the  play  is  the  tragedy,  "  Man," 

And  its  hero,  the  Conqueror  Worm.  40 

THE   EAVE1ST 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak 

and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten 

lore,— 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came 

a  tapping, 

55 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  cham- 
ber door. 

"'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "tapping  at  my 

chamber  door:  5 

Only  this  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  Decem- 
ber, 

And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost 
upon  the  floor. 

Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow; — vainly  I  had  sought 
to  borrow 

From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — sorrow  for  the 
lost  Lenore,  10 

For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels 
name  Lenore: 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And  the  silken  sad  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple 

curtain 
Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never 

felt  before; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood 

repeating  15 

"  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door, 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door: 

This  it  is  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger;  hesitating  then  no 

longer, 
"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I 

implore;  20 

56 


EDGARi   ALLAN   POE 


But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came 

rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my 

chamber  door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you  " — here  I  opened 

wide  the  door: — 

Darkness  there  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there 

wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to 

dream  before; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave 

no  token, 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered 

word,  "Lenore?" 
This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the 

word,  "Lenore": 

Merely  this  and  nothing  more.    30 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within 

me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  somewhat  louder  than 

before. 
"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is  something  at  my 

window  lattice; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery 

explore ; 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment  and  this  mystery 

explore :  35 

'Tis  the  wind  and  nothing  more/' 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a 

flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days 

of  yore. 

57 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Not  the  least  obeisance   made   he;  not   a  minute 

stopped  or  stayed  he; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my 

chamber  door, 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber 

door: 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into 
smiling 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it 
wore, — 

"Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I 
said,  "  art  sure  no  craven,  45 

Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Kaven  wandering  from  the 
Nightly  shore: 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plu- 
tonian shore ! " 

Quoth  the  Eaven,   "Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  dis- 
course so  plainly, 

Though  his  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy 
bore;  50 

For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human 
being 

Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  cham- 
ber door, 

Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his 
chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid  bust, 
spoke  only  55 

That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did 
outpour. 

58 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE 


Nothing  further  then  he  uttered,  not  a  feather  then 

he  fluttered, 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered, — "  Other  friends 

have  flown  before : 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  Hopes  have 

flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore."  60 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly 

spoken, 
"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock 

and  store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  unmerciful 

Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one 

burden  bore: 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden 

bore  65 

Of  '  Never — nevermore.' " 

But  the  Kaven  still  beguiling  all  my  fancy  into  smil- 
ing, 

Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird 
and  bust  and  door; 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to 
linking 

Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of 
yore,  70 

What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  omi- 
nous bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  ex- 
pressing 

To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my 
bosom's  core; 

59 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease 
reclining  75 

On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamplight 
gloated  o'er, 

But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamplight 
gloating  o'er 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from 

an  unseen  censer 
Swung  by  seraphim  whose  foot-falls  tinkled  on  the 

tufted  floor.  80 

"Wretch,"  I  cried,  "thy  God  hath  lent  thee— by 

these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Eespite — respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of 

Lenore ! 
Quaff,  oh,  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this 

lost  Lenore ! " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil!  prophet  still,  if 
bird  or  devil!  85 

Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed 
thee  here  ashore, 

Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  en- 
chanted— 

On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I 
implore : 

Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead? — tell  me — tell 
me,  I  implore !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore."  90 

"Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil!  prophet  still,  if 

bird  or  devil ! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us,  by  that  God  we 

both  adore, 

60 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE 


Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant 

Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore : 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels 

name  Lenore !  "  95 

Quoth  the  Kaven,  "Nevermore." 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend ! "  I 

shrieked,  upstarting: 
"Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's 

Plutonian  shore! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul 

hath  spoken ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken!  quit  the  bust  above 

my  door !  10° 

Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form 

from  off  my  door ! " 

Quoth  the  Kaven,  "  Nevermore." 

And  the  Eaven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is 

sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber 

door; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that 

is  dreaming,  105 

And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his 

shadow  on  the  floor : 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating 

on  the  floor 

Shall  be   lifted — nevermore ! 


61 


A    STUDY   IN    SOUTHERN   POETRY 


THE  CITY  IN  THE  SEA 

Lo !  Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 
In  a  strange  city  lying  alone 
Far  down  within  the  dim  West, 
Where  the  good  and  the  bad  and  the 

worst  and  the  best 

Have  gone  to  their  eternal  rest.  5 

There  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers 
(Time-eaten  towers  that  tremble  not) 
Resemble  nothing  that  is  ours. 
Around,  by  lifting  winds  forgot, 
Resignedly  beneath  the  sky  10 

The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

No  rays  from  the  holy  heaven  come  down 

On  the  long  night-time  of  that  town; 

But  light  from  out  the  lurid  sea 

Streams  up  the  turrets  silently,  15 

Gleams  up  the  pinnacles  far  and  free : 

Up  domes,  up  spires,  up  kingly  halls, 

Up  fanes,  up  Babylon-like  walls, 

Up  shadowy  long-forgotten  bowers 

Of  sculptured  ivy  and  stone  flowers,  20 

Up  many  and  many  a  marvellous  shrine 

Whose  wreathed  friezes  intertwine 

The  viol,  the  violet,  and  the  vine. 

Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 

The  melancholy  waters  lie.  25 

So  blend  the  turrets  and  the  shadows  there 

That  all  seem  pendulous  in  air, 

While  from  a  proud  tower  in  the  town 

Death  looks  gigantically  down. 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE 


There  open  fanes  and  gaping  graves  30 

Yawn  level  with  the  luminous  waves; 

But  not  the  riches  there  that  lie 

In  each  idol's  diamond  eye, — 

Not  the  gayly  jewelled  dead, 

Tempt  the  waters  from  their  bed;  3P 

For  no  ripples  curl,  alas, 

Along  that  wilderness  of  glass; 

No- swellings  tell  that  winds  may  be 

Upon  some  far-off  happier  sea; 

No  heavings  hint  that  winds  have  been          40 

On  seas  less  hideously  serene ! 

But  lo,  a  stir  is  in  the  air! 

The  wave — there  is  a  movement  there! 

As  if  the  towers  had  thrust  aside, 

In  slightly  sinking,  the  dull  tide;  45 

As  if  their  tops  had  feebly  given 

A  void  within  the  filmy  Heaven ! 

The  waves  have  now  a  redder  glow, 

The  hours  are  breathing  faint  and  low; 

And  when,  amid  no  earthly  moans,  50 

Down,  down  that  town  shall  settle  hence, 

Hell,  rising  from  a  thousand  thrones, 

Shall  do  it  reverence. 


ULALUME 

The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober ; 
The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere, 
The  leaves  they  were  withering  and  sere ; 

It  was  night  in  the  lonesome  October 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year;  6 

63 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 
In  the  misty  mid  region  of  Weir : 

It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

Here  once,  through  an  alley  Titanic  10 

Of  cypress,  I  roamed  with  my  Soul — 
Of  cypress,  with  Psyche,  my  Soul. 

These  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcanic 
As  the  scoriae  rivers  that  roll, 
As  the  lavas  that  restlessly  roll  15 

Their  sulphurous  currents  down  Yaanek 
In  the  ultimate  climes  of  the  pole, 

That  groan  as  they  roll  down  Mount  Yaanek 
In  the  realms  of  the  boreal  pole. 

Our  talk  had  been  serious  and  sober,  20 

But  our  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and  sere, 
Our  memories  were  treacherous  and  sere, 

For  we  knew  not  the  month  was  October, 
And  we  marked  not  the  night  of  the  year, 
(Ah,  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year !)          25 

We  noted  not  the  dim  lake  of  Auber 

(Though  once  we  had  journeyed  down  here) 

Remembered  not  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber 
Nor  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

And  now,  as  the  night  was  senescent  30 

And  star-dials  pointed  to  morn, 

As  the  star  dials  hinted  of  morn, 
At  the  end  of  our  path  a  liquescent 

And  nebulous  lustre  was  born, 
Out  of  which  a  miraculous  crescent  35 

Arose  with  a  duplicate  horn, 
Astarte's  bediamonded  crescent 

Distinct  with  its  duplicate  horn. 
64 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE 


And  I  said — "  She  is  warmer  than  Dian : 

She  rolls  through  an  ether  of  sighs,  40 

She  revels  in  a  region  of  sighs : 
She  has  seen  that  the  tears  are  not  dry  on 

These  cheeks,  where  the  worm  never  dies, 
And  has  come  past  the  stars  of  the  Lion 

To  point  us  the  path  to  the  skies,  45 

To  the  Lethean  peace  of  the  skies : 
Come  up  in  spite  of  the  Lion, 

To  shine  on  us  with  her  bright  eyes: 
Come  up  through  the  lair  of  the  Lion, 

With  love  in  her  luminous  eyes."  60 

But  Psyche,  uplifting  her  finger, 
Said— "Sadly  this  star  I  mistrust, 
Her  pallor  I  strangely  mistrust : 

Oh,  hasten! — oh,  let  us  not  linger! 

Oh,  fly !— let  us  fly !— f or  we  must."  55 

In  terror  she  spoke,  letting  sink  her 
Wings  till  they  trailed  in  the  dust; 

In  agony  sobbed,  letting  sink  her 
Plumes  till  they  trailed  in  the  dust, 
Till  they  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust.    60 

I  replied — "  This  is  nothing  but  dreaming : 
Let  us  on  by  this  tremulous  light! 
Let  us  bathe  in  this  crystalline  light ! 

Its  sibyllic  splendor  is  beaming 
With  hope  and  in  beauty  to-night: 
See,  it  flickers  up  the  sky  through  the 
night ! 

Ah,  we  safely  may  trust  to  its  gleaming, 
And  be  sure  it  will  lead  us  aright : 

We  safely  may  trust  to  a  gleaming 
65 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

That  cannot  but  guide  us  aright,  70 

Since  it  flickers  up  to  Heaven  through  the 
night. 

Thus  I  pacified  Psyche  and  kissed  her, 
And  tempted  her  out  of  her  gloom, 
And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom; 

And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista,  75 

But  were  stopped  by  the  door  of  a  tomb, 
By  the  door  of  a  legended  tomb ; 

And  I  said — "  What  is  written,  sweet  sister, 
On  the  door  of  this  legended  tomb?  " 
She  replied — "Ulalume — Ulalume —  80 

'Tis  the  vault  of  thy  lost  Ulalume ! " 

Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober 
As  the  leaves  that  were  crisped  and  sere, 
As  the  leaves  that  were  withering  and  sere, 

And  I  cried — "  It  was  surely  October  85 

On  this  very  night  of  last  year 
That  I  journeyed — I  journeyed  down  here, 
That  I  brought  a  dread  burden  down  here: 
On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year, 
Ah,  what  demon  has  tempted  me  here  ?        90 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dim  lake  of  Auber, 
This  misty  mid  region  of  Weir: 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
This  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir." 

ANNABEL  LEE 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Jjee ; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought    5 

Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 
66 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE 


I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee; 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling  15 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
So  that  her  highborn  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea.  20 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me ; 
Yes !  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  Imow, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night,          25 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we, 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above,  30 

NOT  the  demons  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee : 

For  the  moon  never  beams,  without  bringing  me 
dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ;  35 

And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 

67 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side, 
Of  my  darling— my  darling — my  life  and  my  bride, 
In  her  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea  40 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 

THE  BELLS 


Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells, 

Silver  bells! 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night !  5 

While  the  stars,  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Kunic  rhyme,  10 

To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

II 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells,  15 

Golden  bells! 

What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 

From  the  molten-golden  notes,  20 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 

68 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


On  the  moon! 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells,  25 

What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells ! 
How  it  swells ! 
How  it  dwells 

On  the  Future !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  beUs, 

Bells,  bells,  bells—- 
To the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells !     35 

III 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells, 

Brazen  bells! 

What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright !          40 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune, 

In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic 
fire  4B 

Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor 
Now — now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon.  60 

Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  Despair! 
How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar ! 

69 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

What  a  horror  they  outpour  55 

On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air ! 

Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows 

By  the  twanging 

And  the  clanging 

How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows;  60 

Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, — 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the 
bells,  es 

Of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells ! 


IV 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells,  70 

Iron  bells ! 

What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  com- 
pels! 

In  the  silence  of  the  night 
How  we  shiver  Tzith  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone !     75 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 

And  the  people — ah,  the  people, 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple,  80 

All  alone* 

And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling 
In  that  muffled  monotone, 
70 


EDGAK   ALLAN   POE 


Peel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman, 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human, 

They  are  Ghouls: 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls,  90 

Eolls 
A  paean  from  the  bells; 

And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  paean  of  the  bells, 

And  he  dances,  and  he  yells :  95 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

In  a  sort  of  Eunic  rhyme, 

To  the  paean  of  the  bells, 

Of  the  bells: 

Keeping  time,  time,  time,  10° 

In  a  sort  of  Eunic  rhyme, 
To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time,  106 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Eunic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells. 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells : 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells,  no 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells — • 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 


A    STUDY   IN    SOUTHERN   POETRY 


TO    ONE   IN   PARADISE 

Thou  wast  all  that  to  me,  love, 

For  which  my  soul  did  pine : 
A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 

A  fountain  and  a  shrine 
All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers,     5 

And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 

Ah !  dream  too  bright  to  last ! 

Ah !  starry  hope  that  didst  arise 
But  to  be  overcast! 

A  voice  from  out  the  future  cries,  10 

"  On !  on !  "  -but  o'er  the  Past 

(Dim  gulf !)  my  spirit  hovering  lies 
Mute,  motionless,  aghast. 

For,  alas!  alas!  with  me 

The  light  of  life  is  o'er !  ™ 

No  more — no  more — no  more — 
(Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 

To  the  sands  upon  the  shore) 
Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tree, 

Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar.  20 

And  all  my  days  are  trances, 

And  all  my  nightly  dreams 
Are  where  thy  gray  eye  glances, 

And  where  thy  footstep  gleams, 
In  what  ethereal  dances,  ^ 

By  what  eternal  streams. 

To  HELEN.  Classify  this  graceful  lyric.  2.  Al- 
lusion seems  to  be  confused:  possibly  Phaeacian 
is  meant, — or  more  likely  the  poet  chose  the  word 

72 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


for  its  sound.  4.  What  poetic  touch?  7.  "Hya- 
cinth": becoming  Hyacinthus,  the  youth  beloved  of 
Apollo.  8.  "Naiad":  a  rural  nymph.  9,  10.  Bold 
metaphors.  14.  "  Psyche  " :  read  the  beautiful  story 
of  Psyche  and  Cupid,  and  see  note  under  "  Ulalume." 

ISRAFEL.  There  is  a  thrill  of  joy  in  this  lyric ;  the 
poem,  therefore,  is  unique.  The  singer  rises  for 
once  like  the  lark,  above  the  mists,  and  carols  in  the 
morning  light.  12.  "Levin":  lightning.  What 
kind  of  epithet  is  "red"?  13.  Why  the  adjective 
with  «  Pleiades  "  ?  26.  "  Houri " :  a  nymph  of  Para- 
dise;— so  called  by  Mohammedans.  32.  "The 
laurels":  symbolical  of  highest  lyrical  attainments. 
36.  "  Suit " :  are  in  perfect  accord.  43,  44.  Explain. 

LENORE.  1.  What  Biblical  allusion?  2.  "  Stygian 
river  " :  the  Styx,  a  fabled  stream,  flows  around  the 
regions  of  the  dead.  9.  Any  criticism  of  "  in  feeble 
health"?  12.  Criticise  a  phrase  in  this  line.  13. 
"  Peccavimus " :  a  Latin  verb  meaning  "We  have 
sinned."  Does  the  foreign  word  add  to  the  beauty 
of  the  poem?  26.  "  Paean  " :  a  song  of  triumph. 

THE  HAUNTED  PALACE.  This  extended  metaphor 
is  drawn  out  with  powerful  effect.  Stedman  has 
truthfully  said :  "  The  conception  of  a  lost  mind 
never  has  been  so  imaginatively  treated,  whether  by 
poet  or  by  painter." 

1.  Under  the  happiest  conditions.  2.  "Good 
angels  " :  beautiful  fancies.  3.  "  Palace  " :  the  body. 
7,  8.  Meaning?  9-16.  Of  these  lines  Myers  has  writ- 
ten with  this  keen  appreciation :  "  What  inward  im- 
pulse struck  the  strong  note  of  Banners;  and  mar- 
shalled those  long  vowels  in  deepening  choir;  and 
interjected  the  intensifying  pause,  all  this;  and  led 
on  through  air  to  the  melancholy  olden;  and  hung* 
in  the  void  of  an  unknown  eternity  the  diapason  of 

73 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Time  long  ago?"  What  are  the  "banners/7  the 
"roof"  and  "the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid"? 
17.  "Wanderers":  kindred  spirits  that  communed 
with  the  one  described.  18.  "  Luminous  windows  " : 
the  eyes.  19,  20.  Poetic  dreams.  22.  Born  to  the 
purple.  25.  "The  ruler":  the  mind.  26,  27.  Ex- 
plain pearl,  ruby  and  palace  door.  29.  "  Echoes  " : 
words.  Aptly  characterized,  for  words  fail  to  express 
fully  the  poet's  thoughts.  33.  "Evil  things":  ex- 
plain. 35,  36.  The  parenthesis  indicates  a  subordi- 
nate, but  this  is  pregnant  with  thought — give  it.  42. 
"Red-litten  windows":  a  masterful  stroke  and  in 
strong  contrast  to  the  "  luminous  windows  "  above. 
What  further  antitheses  below  to  foregoing  descrip- 
tions ?  46.  "  The  pale  door  " :  this  is  pathos  indeed. 
48.  In  the  laugh  of  the  maniac — the  laugh  without 
the  smile — the  gloom  is  absolute. 

THE  CONQUEROR  WORM.  This  is  the  most  unre- 
lievedly  hopeless  of  all  Poe's  lyrics.  It  is  a  cry  of 
abject  despair.  1.  The  "r;ala  light"  heightens  the 
effect  of  the  entire  poem.  8.  Music  supposed  to  be 
produced  by  the  harmonious  movement  of  the  heav- 
enly bodies.  9  "  Mimes  " :  actors  in  a  farce.  Mor- 
tal beings  are  meant — a  man  in  the  image  of  God : — 
a  fearful  state  in  the  poet's  life.  13.  "  Vast  formless 
things  " :  Fate,  Chance,  etc.  19.  "  Phantom  " :  Hap- 
piness. Though  she  lead  the  chasing  crowd  far,  she 
circles  with  them  about  the  sepulchre.  25-32.  There 
is  sheer  madness  in  these  lines.  36.  A  fine  corre- 
spondence between  sound  and  sense :  wherein  lies  the 
secret  ? 

THE  RAVEN.  This  is  the  most  notable  of  all  Poe's 
work,  whether  prose  or  poetry.  In  it  he  reached  his 
highest  excellence.  He  wrought  into  its  composition 
all  his  wealth  of  love,  gloom,  glamour,  symbolism, 

74 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE 


imagery,  harmony,  mystery,  despair.  The  critics 
differ  as  to  its  relative  value,  however. 

Various  sources  have  been  suggested  from  which 
Poe  drew  his  inspiration:  Pike's  "Isadore,"  (in- 
cluded in  this  book)  with  its  refrain, — 

"  Thou   art  lost  to  me  forever,  Isadore  " ; 

and  Mrs.  Browning's  "  Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship," 
with  certain  points  of  resemblance, — the  line,  for 
instance, — 

"  With  a  murmurous  stir  uncertain,  in  the  air,  the  pur- 
ple curtain." 

which  is  strongly  like  Poe's, — 

"  And  the   silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple 
curtain." 

But  the  intricate  metre,  the  conjuring  melody,  the 
fantastic  imagery,  the  ethereal  visitants,  the  croak- 
ing raven,  the  .lurid  setting — these  are  Poe's,  no 
matter  whence  his  materials. 

Despite  its  unique  tone-color  and  well-nigh  in- 
surmountable intricacies  of  rhyme,  it  has  been  re- 
peatedly translated  into  French,  German,  Hungarian, 
Latin,  etc.,  so  strengthening  Mr.  Ingram's  estimate 
of  it  as  the  most  popular  lyric  in  the  world. 

3.  Correspondence  between  sound  and  sense:  what 
figure?  4.  Notice  the  repetition.  7-12.  Introduced 
for  suspense.  What  point  of  difference  between  this 
stanza  and  all  others?  25,  26.  Striking  alliteration. 
28,  29.  It  is  hard  to  understand  how  the  author  of 
these  magical  lines  could  be  content  with  the  prosaic 
refrain, — 

"Merely  Ibis  and  nothing  more." 

37.  "  Flirt  and  flutter  " :  figure  ?  This  is  graphic.  41. 
The  bust  of  Pallas  is  in  keeping  with  the  lover's 
scholarship — but  one  suspects  it  was  intended  also 

75 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

to  bring  out  in  the  strongest  possible  relief  the  ebony 
plumage  of  the  bird.  42-48.  What  dramatic  effect 
has  the  stanza,  introduced,  as  it  is,  after  the  grave 
reflections  and  intimations  that  precede?  45.  Ex- 
plain this  line.  47.  "Pluto,"  the  god  of  darkness, 
ruled  over  the  infernal  regions.  48.  How  does  the 
raven's  answer  to  his  playful  question  affect  the  man  ? 
60.  Notice  the  soliloquizing  that  elicited  this  reply, 
and  the  effect  on  the  lover  in  the  next  stanza.  The 
third  reply,  also,  was  an  answer  to  spoken  reflections ; 
but  afterwards  the  "  Nevermore  "  was  a  reply  to  a 
direct  question  so  framed  that  the  word  stabbed  the 
lover  to  the  heart.  82.  "Nepenthe":  a  drug  that 
relieves  pain  and  sorrow.  89.  "  Balm  in  Gilead  " : 
what  allusion?  93.  "  Aidenn":  Eden;  suggested  by 
the  Arabic  form  of  the  word,  Adan.  101.  What 
powerful  metaphor? 

"It  will  be  observed,"  says  Poe,  "that  the  words 
6  from  out  my  heart '  involve  the  first  metaphorical 
expression  in  the  poem.  They,  with  the  answer 
6  Nevermore,'  dispose  the  mind  to  seek  a  moral  in  all 
that  has  been  previously  narrated.  The  reader  begins 
now  to  regard  the  Eaven  as  emblematical — but  it  is 
not  until  the  very  last  line  of  the  very  last  stanza 
that  the  intention  of  making  him  emblematical  of 
Mournful  and  Never-ending  Remembrance  is  per- 
mitted distinctly  to  be  seen." 

106.  In  answer  to  the  criticism  on  this  line,  that 
the  lamp  could  not  throw  the  shadow  of  the  bird  on 
the  floor,  Poe  says:  "My  conception  was  that  of 
the  bracket  candelabrum  affixed  against  the  wall, 
high  above  the  door  and  bust,  as  is  often  seen  in  the 
English  palaces,  and  even  in  some  of  the  better  houses 
of  New  York." 

THE  CITY  IN  THE  SEA.  3.  Why  place  the  city  in 
76 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE 


the  west?  7.  "Tremble  not":  why  this  statement? 
9.  "By  lifting  winds  forgot":  complete  stagnation. 
14-23.  The  city  of  the  dead  is  pictured  more  dis- 
tinctly here,  though  "  kingly  halls  "  is  a  little  con- 
fusing. Explain  the  figures.  "No  rays  from  holy 
heaven  come  down":  no  positive  voice  of  those  that 
leave  us  speaks  back  to  us  across  the  gloom,  but 
death  itself  diffuses  a  lurid  light.  24,  25.  Any 
criticism  on  the  repetition?  26,  27.  A  marvellous 
touch!  33.  Eich  memorials  to  the  dead.  40,  41. 
Nothing  there  suggestive  of  the  past  of  those  silent 
voyagers.  42-53.  A  vision  of  the  Resurrection;  read 
this  meaning  into  the  lines. 

ULALUME.  2,  3.  Repetition.  What  figure  in  each 
of  these  lines?  5.  Figure?  6.  "Auber,"  "Weir," 
and  "Yaanek,"  are  coinages  by  the  poet.  10. 
"  Titanic  " :  the  Titans  were  mythological  giants  who 
made  war  on  Zeus.  12.  "Psyche":  the  word  is 
Greek  and  first  meant  soul,  later,  butterfly,  since 
both  leave  the  body  or  chrysalis  and  escape  into  an- 
other sphere.  14.  "  Scoriae " :  explained  in  next 
line.  21.  Repeated  with  a  variation.  30.  "  Senes- 
cent": derivation?  37.  "Astarte":  the  Phoenician 
Venus,  called  also  Astoreth,  the  queen  of  the 
heaven,  and  here  identified  with  Diana,  the  goddess 
of  the  moon.  She  is  represented  as  clad  in  a  long 
robe  and  veil,  with  a  crescent  moon  above  her  head. 
44.  "The  Lion":  the  constellation,  Leo.  46. 
"  Lethean " :  the  Lethe,  a  river  of  Hades,  brought 
forgetfulness  to  those  who  drank  of  its  waters.  64. 
Sibyllic  " :  the  Sibyls,  mythological  women,  had  pro- 
phetic powers. 

It  is  impossible  to  trace  a  definite  thought 
through  this  poem.  One  should  yield  to  its  spell 
just  as  one  would  to  the  fantasies  of  some  old  master. 

77 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

ANNABEL  LEE.  Stedman  considers  this  superior 
to  "  The  Raven,"  while  Stoddard  averred  that  it  has 
no  merit  beyond  that  of  a  melodious  jingle.  It  is 
one  of  the  poet's  simplest  and  tenderest  poems. 
There  is  a  charm  in  its  spontaneity.  The  lines  are 
a  tribute  to  the  memory  of  his  lost  wife,  the  only 
woman,  thinks  Mrs.  Osgood,  that  he  ever  truly 
loved.  Of  her  personality  Captain  Mayne  Reid 
says,  "A  lady  angelically  beautiful  in  person,  and 
not  less  beautiful  in  spirit." 

2.  "  Kingdom  by  the  sea  " :  the  kingdom  is  Time ; 
the  sea,  Eternity.  17.  "Highborn  kinsmen5':  an- 
gels. 38.  Professor  Painter  thinks  this  line  may 
be  taken  literally,  but  one  would  prefer  to  read  it 
figuratively, — the  poet's  heart  lies  buried  with  his 
loved  one. 

THE  BELLS.  The  story  of  "  The  Bells,"  as  given 
by  Mr.  Stoddard,  is  as  follows:  "In  the  autumn  of 
this  year  [1847]  Poe  visited  Mrs.  Shew  at  her  resi- 
dence in  New  York  and  said  that  he  had  a  poem  to 
write,  but  that  he  had  no  feeling,  no  sentiment,  no 
inspiration.  She  persuaded  him  to  have  tea,  which 
was  served  in  the  conservatory,  the  windows  of  which 
were  open  and  admitted  the  sound  of  neighboring 
church-bells.  After  tea  she  produced  pens  and 
paper,  but  he  declined  them,  saying  that  he  disliked 
the  sound  of  bells  so  much  that  night  that  he  could 
not  write;  he  had  no  subject,  and  was  exhausted. 
She  took  the  pen  and  wrote  the  head-line,  'The 
Bells,  by  E.  A.  Poe,'  and  for  the  first  line  of  the 
projected  poem,  '  The  bells,  the  little  silver  bells/ 
He  finished  the  stanza.  She  then  suggested  for  the 
first  line  of  the  second  stanza,  '  The  heavy  iron  bells,' 
and  he  finished  that  stanza  also.  Then  he  copied  the 

78 


EDGAEi   ALLAN    POE 


composite  poem,  and  heading  it,  'By  Mrs.  M.  L. 
Shew/  handed  it  to  her,  saying  it  was  hers." 

The  poem  was  three  times  rewritten  and  enlarged, 
and  was  published  in  1849,  soon  after  Poe's  death, 
in  Sartain's  Magazine.  The  following  is  the  first 
form  of  the  poem: 

"The  bells!— hear  the  bells! 
The  merry  wedding  bells ! 
The  little  silver  bells ! 
How  fairy-like  a  melody  there  swells 
From  the  silver  tinkling  cells 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells! 

The  bells !— ah,  the  bells ! 

The  heavy  iron  bells! 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells! 

Hear  the  knells! 
How  horrible  a  melody  there  floats 

From  their  throats — 

From  their  deep-toned  throats! 
How  I  shudder  at  the  notes 

From  the  melancholy  throats 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells! 

Notice  how  the  words  and  the  rhythm  in  the  poem 
as  we  now  have  it  correspond  to  the  sense ;  "  tintin- 
nabulation/' "jingling,"  "tinkling/'  expressive  of 
the  chime  of  sleigh  bells;  and  "bells,  bells,  bells, 
bells/'  etc.,  of  the  monotony  of  their  sound.  What 
figure  is  this?  Observe  the  "molten-golden  notes" 
of  the  wedding  bells ;  the  "  jangling/'  "  wrangling," 

79 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

of  the  fire  bells;  and  the  "throbbing,"  "sobbing," 
"moaning,"  "groaning,"  of  the  death  bells.  Trace 
the  figure  throughout. 

To  ONE  IN  PARADISE.  What  is  the  metre?  The 
rhyme  order  ?  The  stanza  form  ?  What  is  the  mood 
that  prompted  the  poem?  What  is  the  central 
theme  ?  The  lyric  note  is  especially  clear  in  the  first 
and  the  last  stanza.  What  difference  as  to  structure 
in  the  second  and  the  third?  10.  What  "voice"? 
16.  The  long-drawn  roar  of  the  sea  is  heard  in 
this  line.  19,  20.  "Thunder-blasted  tree — stricken 
eagle":  figures?  25,  26.  "What— what":  what- 
ever. 


80 


Albert  Pike 

1809—1891 

Though  Pike  was  born  in  Boston,  the  fact  that  he 
organized  bodies  of  Indians  and,  as  a  brigadier-gen- 
eral, led  them  in  the  Confederate  Army,  identifies 
him  with  the  South. 

After  an  incomplete  course  at  Harvard  he  engaged 
in  teaching  at  Newburyport  for  a  while ;  then  he  set 
out  for  the  Southwest:  and,  after  wandering  for  a 
time  through  that  vast  region,  settled  at  Fort  Smith, 
Ark.  There  he  resumed  his  teaching,  but  soon  after- 
ward became  editor  of  the  Arkansas  Advocate.  This 
position  he  held  only  a  short  while,  turning  his  at- 
tention to  the  law,  in  which  profession  he  distin- 
guished himself.  Meanwhile  he  kept  up  his  literary 
pursuits,  contributing  to  Blackwood's,  for  one  thing, 
his  notable  "Hymns  to  the  Gods."  In  1866  he 
moved  to  Memphis,  where  he  engaged  in  the  practice 
of  law,  and  a  year  later  took  editorial  control  of  the 
Memphis  Appeal.  Within  a  twelvemonth  he  sold, 
out  and  went  to  Washington;  there  he  spent  the  re- 
mainder of  his  life. 

In  his  latter  years  he  followed  his  literary  bent, 
at  the  same  time  keeping  up  his  law  practice.  He 
published  four  volumes  of  verse,  "  Nugae,"  including 
"  Hymns  to  the  Gods,"  being  his  most  notable.  He 
was  prominent  as  a  Freemason,  and  left  some  twenty 
volumes  on  that  subject. 


81 


A   STUDY   IN    SOUTHERN   POETRY 


TO  THE  MOCKING-BIKD 

Thou  glorious  mocker  of  the  world!     I  hear 
Thy  many  voices  ringing  through  the  glooms 

Of  these  green  solitudes;  and  all  the  clear, 

Bright  joyance  of  their  song  enthralls  the  ear, 

And  floods  the  heart.     Over  the  sphered  tombs      5 

Of  vanished  nations  rolls  thy  music-tide; 
No  light  from  History's  starlit  page  illumes 

The  memory  of  these  nations;  they  have  died: 
None  care  for  them  but  thou ;  and  thou  mayst  sing 
O'er  me,  perhaps,  as  now  thy  clear  notes  ring      10 

Over  their  bones  by  whom  thou  once  wast  deified. 

Glad  scorner  of  all  cities!    Thou  dost  leave 
The  world's  mad  turmoil  and  incessant  din, 

Where  none  in  others'  honesty  believe, 

Where  the  old  sigh,  the  young  turn  gray  and  grieve, 15 
Where  misery  gnaws  the  maiden's  heart  within : 

Thou  fleest  far  into  the  dark  green  woods, 

Where,  with  thy  flood  of  music,  thou  canst  win 

Their  heart  to  harmony,  and  where  intrudes 

No  discord  on  thy  melodies.     Oh,  where,  20 

Among  the  sweet  musicians  of  the  air, 

Is  one  so  dear  as  thou  to  these  old  solitudes  ? 


Ha !  what  a  burst  was  that!    The  ^Eolian  strain 
Goes  floating  through  the  tangled  passages 

Of  the  still  woods,  and  now  it  comes  again,  25 

A  multitudinous  melody, — like  a  rain 
Of  glassy  music  under  echoing  trees, 

Close  by  a  ringing  lake.     It  wraps  the  soul 
With  a  bright  harmony  of  happiness, 
82 


ALBERT   PIKE 


Even  as  a  gem  is  wrapped  when  round  it  roll          30 
Thin  waves  of  crimson  flame;  till  we  become 
With  the  excess  of  perfect  pleasure,  dumb, 

And  pant  like  a  swift  runner  clinging  to  the  goal. 

I  cannot  love  the  man  who  doth  not  love, 

As  men  love  light,  the  song  of  happy  birds;        35 

For  the  first  visions  that  my  boy-heart  wove 

To  fill  its  sleep  with,  were  that  I  did  rove 

Through  the  fresh  wood,  what  time  the  snowy  herds 

Of  morning  clouds  shrunk  from  the  advancing  sun 
Into  the  depths  of  Heaven's  blue  heart,  as  words  40 

From  the  Poet's  lips  float  gently,  one  by  one, 
And  vanish  in  the  human  heart;  and  then 
I  revelled  in  such  songs,  and  sorrowed  when, 

With   noon-heat  overwrought,   the   music-gush  was 
done. 

I  would,  sweet  bird,  that  I  might  live  with  thee,      45 
Amid  the  eloquent  grandeur  of  these  shades, 

Alone  with  nature, — but  it  may  not  be ; 

I  have  to  struggle  with  the  stormy  sea 
Of  human  life  until  existence  fades 

Into  death's  darkness.     Thou  wilt  sing  and  soar      50 
Through  the  thick  woods  and  shadow-checkered 
glades, 

While  pain  and  sorrow  cast  no  dimness  o'er 
The  brilliance  of  thy  heart;  but  I  must  wear, 
As  now,  my  garments  of  regret  and  care, — 

As  penitents  of  old  their  galling  sackcloth  wore.      55 

Yet  why  complain?    What  though  fond  hopes  de- 
ferred 

Have  overshadowed  Life's  green  paths  with  gloom  ? 
Content's  soft  music  is  not  all  unheard ; 
There  is  a  voice  sweeter  than  thine,  sweet  bird, 

S3 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

To  welcome  me  within  my  humble  home ;  60 

There  is  an  eye,  with  love's  devotion  bright, 

The  darkness  of  existence  to  illume. 
Then  why  complain?     When  Death  shall  cast  his 

blight 

Over  the  spirit,  my  cold  bones  shall  rest 
Beneath    these    trees;    and,    from    thy    swelling 

breast, 
Over  them  pour  thy  song,  like  a  rich  flood  of  light. 

EVERY   YEAR 

The  spring  has  less  of  brightness, 

Every  year; 
And  the  snow  a  ghastlier  whiteness, 

Every  year; 

NOT  do  summer  flowers  quicken,  6 

Nor  does  autumn  fruitage  thicken, 
As  they  once  did,  for  they  sicken, 

Every  year. 

Life  is  a  count  of  losses, 

Every  year;  ia 

For  the  weak  are  heavier  crosses, 

Every  year; 

Lost  springs  with  sobs  replying, 
TJnto  weary  autumn's  sighing, 
While  those  we  love  are  dying,  15 

Every  year. 

It  is  growing  darker,  colder, 

Every  year; 
As  the  heart  and  soul  grow  older, 

Every  year;  *° 

84 


ALBERT   PIKE 


I  care  not  now  for  dancing, 
Or  for  eyes  with  passion  glancing, 
Love  is  less  and  less  entrancing, 
Every  year. 

The  days  have  less  of  gladness,  * 

Every  year; 
The  nights  have  more  of  sadness, 

Every  year; 

Fair  springs  no  longer  charm  us, 
The  wind  and  weather  harm  us,  30 

The  threats  of  death  alarm  us, 

Every  year. 

There  come  new  cares  and  sorrows, 

Every  year; 
Dark  days  and  darker  morrows,  35 

Every  year; 

The  ghosts  of  dead  loves  haunt  us, 
The  ghosts  of  changed  friends  taunt  us, 
And  disappointments  daunt  us, 

Every  year.  40 

Of  the  loves  and  sorrows  blended, 

Every  year; 
Of  the  charms  of  friendship  ended, 

Every  year; 

Of  the  ties  that  still  might  bind  me,  45 

Until  time  and  death  resigned  me, 
My  infirmities  remind  me, 

Every  year. 

Our  life  is  less  worth  living, 

Every  year;  50 

And  briefer  our  thanksgiving, 

Every  year; 
85 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

And  love,  grown  faint  and  fretful, 
With  lips  but  half  regretful, 
Averts  its  eyes,  forgetful,  55 

Every  year. 

Ah!  how  sad  to  look  before  us, 

Every  year; 
While  the  clouds  grow  darker  o'er  us, 

Every  year;  60 

When  we  see  the  blossoms  faded, 
That  to  bloom  we  might  have  aided, 
And  immortal  garlands  braided, 

Every  year. 

To  the  past  go  more  dead  faces,  65 

Every  year; 
And  the  loved  leave  vacant  places, 

Every  year; 

Everywhere  the  sad  eyes  meet  us, 
In  the  evening's  dusk  they  greet  us,  70 

And  to  come  to  them  entreat  us, 

Every  year. 

"  You  are  growing  old,"  they  tell  us, 

"Every  year." 
"  You  are  more  alone,"  they  tell  us,  75 

"Every  year." 

"  You  can  win  no  new  affection, 
You  have  only  recollection, 
Deeper  sorrow  and  dejection, 

Every  year."  80 

Too  true!    Life's  shores  are  shifting, 

Every  year; 

And  we  are  seaward  drifting, 
Every  year; 

86 


ALBERT   PIKE 


Old  places,  changing,  fret  us,  8B 

The  living  more  forget  us, 
There  are  fewer  to  regret  us, 
Every  year. 

But  the  truer  life  draws  nigher, 

Every  year;  90 

And  its  morning-star  climbs  higher, 

Every  year; 

Earth's  hold  on  us  grows  slighter, 
And  the  heavy  burdens  lighter, 
And  the  dawn  immortal  brighter,  95 

Every  year. 

Thank  God !  no  clouds  are  shifting, 

Every  year, 
O'er  the  land  to  which  we're  drifting, 

Every  year;  10° 

No  losses  there  will  grieve  us, 
Nor  loving  faces  leave  us, 
Nor  death  of  friends  bereave  us, 

Every  year. 


THE   WIDOWED   HEAET 

Thou  art  lost  to  me  forever! — I  have  lost  thee,  Isa- 

dore! 

Thy  head  will  never  rest  upon  my  loyal  bosom  more ; 
Thy  tender  eyes  will  never  more  look  fondly  into 

mine, 

Nor  thine  arms  around  me  lovingly  and  trustingly 
entwine, — 

Thou  art  lost  to  me  forever,  Isadore  I  5 

87 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Thou  art  dead  and  gone,  dear  loving  wife,  thy  heart 
is  still  and  cold, 

And  mine,  benumbed  with  wretchedness,  is  prema- 
turely old: 

Of  our  whole  world  of  love  and  joy  thou  wast  the 
only  light, — 

A  star,  whose  setting  left  behind,  ah  me!  how  dark 

a  night! — 
Thou  art  lost  to  me  forever,  Isadore !  10 

The  vines  and  flowers  we  planted,  Love,  I  tend  with 

anxious  care, 
And  yet  they  droop  and  fade  away,  as  though  they 

wanted  air: 
They  cannot  live  without  thine  eyes  to  feed  them 

with  their  light; 

Since  thy  hands  ceased  to  train  them,  Love,  they 
cannot  grow  aright; — 

Thou  art  lost  to  them  forever,  Isadore!        15 

Our  little  ones  inquire  of  me  where  is  their  mother 

gone  :-— 
What  answer  can  I  make  to  them,  except  with  tears 

alone, 
For  if  I  say  "  To  Heaven,"  then  the  poor  things  wish 

to  learn 

How  far  it  is,  and  where,  and  when  their  mother  will 
return ; — • 

Thou  art  lost  to  them  forever,  Isadore!        20 

Our  happy  home  has  now  become  a  lonely,  silent 

place ; 
Like   heaven   without  its  stars  it  is,  without  thy 

blessed  face; 

88 


ALBERT   PIKE 


Our  little  ones  are  still  and  sad; — none  love  them 

now  but  I, 

Except  their  mother's  spirit,  which  I  feel  is  always 
nigh;— 

Thou  lovest  us  in  heaven,  Isadore !  25 

Their  merry  laugh  is  heard  no  more,  they  neither  run 

nor  play, 
But  wander  round  like  little  ghosts,  the  long,  long 

summer  day: 
The  spider  weaves  his  web  across  the  windows  at  his 

will, 

The  flowers  I  gathered  for  thee  last  are  on  the  mantel 
still;— 

Thou  art  lost  to  me  forever,  Isadore !  30 

Eestless  I  pace  our  lonely  rooms,  I  play  our  songs 

no  more, 
The  garish  sun  shines  flauntingly  upon  the  unswept 

floor; 
The  mocking-bird  still  sits  and  sings,  0  melancholy 

strain ! 

For  my  heart  is  like  an  autumn  cloud  that  overflows 
with  rain; 

Thou  art  lost  to  me  forever,  Isadore !  35 

Alas !  how  changed  is  all,  dear  wife,  from  that  sweet 

eve  in  spring, 
When  first  my  love  for  thee  was  told,  and  thou  to 

me  didst  cling, 
Thy  sweet  eyes  radiant,  through  their  tears,  pressing 

thy  lips  to  mine, 

In  our  old  arbor,  Dear,   beneath  the  overarching  " 
vine; — 

Thy  lips  are  cold  forever,  Isadore!  *° 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

The  moonlight  struggled  through  the  leaves,  and  fell 

upon  thy  face, 
So  lovingly  upturning  there,  with  pure  and  trustful 

gaze; 
The  southern  breezes  murmured  through  the  dark 

cloud  of  thy  hair, 

As  like  a  happy  child  thou  didst  in  my  arms  nestle 
there ; — 

Death  holds  thee  now  forever,  Isadore!        45 


Thy  love  and  faith  so  plighted  then,  with  mingled 

smile  and  tear, 
Was  never  broken,  Darling,  while  we  dwelt  together 

here: 
NOT  bitter  word,  nor  dark,  cold  look  thou  ever  gavest 

me — 

Loving  and  trusting  always,  as  I  loved  and  wor- 
shipped thee; — • 

Thou  art  lost  to  me  forever,  Isadore !  50 

Thou  wast  my  nurse  in  sickness,  and  my  comforter 

in  health, 
So  gentle  and  so  constant,  when  our  love  was  all  our 

wealth : 

The  voice  of  music  cheered  me,  Love,  in  each  de- 
spondent hour, 
As  Heaven's  sweet  honey-dew  consoles  the  bruised 

and  broken  flower — 
Thou  art  lost  to  me  forever,  Isadore !  55 


Thou  art  gone  from  me  forever; — I  have  lost  thee, 

Isadore ! 

And  desolate  and  lonely  I  shall  be  forever  more : 

90 


ALBERT   PIKE 


Our  children  hold  me,  Darling,  or  I  to  God  should 

pray 

To  let  me  cast  the  burthen  of  this  long,  dark  life 
away, 

And  see  thy  face  in  Heaven,  Isadore!  60 

To  THE  MOCKING-BIRD.  Bead  Keats's  "  Ode  to  a 
Nightingale,"  and  trace  its  influence  in  this  poem. 
5.  "The  sphered  tomb":  of  the  Mound-Builders. 
20.  Effect  of  the  short  syllables?  56.  "Hopes  de- 
ferred": is  this  original? 

EVERY  YEAR.  Criticise  the  sentiment  of  this 
poem.  To  what  is  its  merit  mainly  due?  Criticise 
the  unity;  for  instance,  in  11  and  94.  49-56.  Com- 
pare with  these  the  following  lines  from  Swinburne's 
"  Garden  of  Proserpine  " : 

"And  love,  grown  faint  and  fretful, 
With  lips  but  half  regretful, 
Sighs,  and  with  eyes  forgetful — 
Weeps  that  no  loves  endure." 

As  to  these  lines,  a  son  of  Mr.  Pike,  now  living  in 
Washington,  D.  C.,  writes,  April  5,  1904,  to  Dr.  C. 
A.  Smith,  now  of  the  University  of  Virginia: 
"  The  lines  you  quote  were  not  written  by  my  father. 
While  he  made  changes  in  the  poem  at  different  times, 
these  lines  never  appeared  in  any  publication  of  the 
poem  by  his  sanction.  <  Every  Year '  was  first  writ~ 
ten  by  my  father  soon  after  the  Civil  War.  I  am 
unable  to  give  you  the  exact  date." 

Dr.  Smith  may  be  correct  in  the  following  solu- 
tion :  "  Some  irresponsible  editor  evidently  inter- 
polated the  lines  in  question.  This  has  long  been  a 
conjecture  of  mine,  inasmuch  as  what  seem  to  be  the 
authorized  editions  of  the  poem  do  not  contain  the 
Swinburnean  lines." 

91 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Only  seven  stanzas  make  the  complete  poem  as 
given  in  Stedman  and  Hutchinson's  "Library  of 
American  Literature  " :  2,  4,  5,  9,  10,  11  and  1%. 

Eead  Swinburne's  marvellously  musical  poem,  re- 
ferred to,  and  compare  it  with  this  at  other  points. 

THE  WIDOWED  HEART.  Compare  this  poem  care- 
fully with  Poe's  "  Kaven,"  and  decide  whether  or  not 
the  latter  was  inspired  by  it.  What  is  the  theme  in 
both?  Is  the  feeling  feigned  or  sincere?  Is  the 
refrain  ever  forced  in?  If  so,  where? 


Philip   Pendleton   Cooke 
1816-1850 

This  author  was  a  Virginian,  an  elder  brother  of 
John  Esten  Cooke,  the  novelist.  He  was  an  alumnus 
of  Princeton,  1834,  and  prepared  himself  for  the 
law;  literature,  however,  lured  him  away  from  this 
profession. 

His  poems  and  stories  were  published  chiefly  in 
the  Southern  Literary  Messenger  while  Thompson 
was  its  editor;  but,  at  an  earlier  period,  he  had  con- 
tributed to  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine. 

His  lyric  given  here,  together  with  others,  as 
"  Eosa  Lee  "  and  "  To  My  Daughter  Lily/'  became 
very  popular.  The  first  has  been  translated  into 
different  languages,  and  has  been  set  to  music  by 
distinguished  composers.  His  only  volume  was 
"  Froissart  Ballads,  and  Other  Poems/3  Philadelphia, 
1847. 


FLORENCE   VANE 

I  loved  thee  long  and  dearly, 

Florence  Vane; 
My  life's  bright  dream,  and  early, 

Hath  come  again; 
I  renew,  in  my  fond  vision, 

My  heart's  dear  pain, 
My  hope,  and  thy  derision, 

Florence  Vane. 
93 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

The  ruin  lone  and  hoary, 

The  ruin  old,  10 

Where  thou  didst  hark  my  story, 

At  even  told, — 
That  spot — the  hues  Elysian 

Of  sky  and  plain — 
I  treasure  in  my  vision,  15 

Florence  Vane. 

Thou  wast  lovelier  than  the  roses 

In  their  prime: 
Thy  voice  excelled  the  closes 

Of  sweetest  rhyme;  20 

Thy  heart  was  as  a  river 

Without  a  main. 
Would  I  had  loved  thee  never, 

Florence  Vane! 

But  fairest,  coldest  wonder !  25 

Thy  glorious  clay 
Lieth  the  green  sod  under — 

Alas  the  day! 
And  it  boots  not  to  remember 

Thy  disdain—  so 

To  quicken  love's  pale  ember, 

Florence  Vane. 

The  lilies  of  the  valley 

By  young  graves  weep, 
The  pansies  love  to  dally  35 

Where  maidens  sleep; 
May  their  bloom,  in  beauty  vying, 

Never  wane. 
Where  thine  earthly  part  is  lying, 

Florence  Vane.  40 

94 


PHILIP  PENDLETON  COOKE 

Is  there  any  resemblance  between  this  and 
Pike's  "Every  Year"?  6.  "Dear  pain":  mean- 
ing ?  Figure  ?  14.  "  Elysian  " :  blissful  abodes  of 
the  dead.  19.  "Closes":  cadences.  21,  22.  Fig- 
ure? 22.  "Without  a  main":  in  what  respect? 


Amelia  B.  Welby 

1819-1859 

Mrs.  Welby  was  a  Miss  Coppuck,  of  St.  Michael's, 
Md.,  but  when  she  was  a  child  her  parents  removed 
to  Kentucky.  In  1837  she  began  writing  verses  for 
the  Louisville  Journal,  under  the  name,  "Amelia," 
her  work  receiving  high  praise  from  Poe,  Prentice, 
Griswold,  and  others. 

A  small  collection  of  her  verses,  "Poems  by 
Amelia/'  Boston,  1844,  has  gone  through  more  than 
twenty  editions.  A  larger  one,  with  illustrations, 
was  published  in  New  York,  1850,  by  Robert  W. 
Weir. 

THE  RAINBOW 

I  sometimes  have  thoughts,  in  my  loneliest  hours, 
That  lie^on  my  heart  like  dew  on  the  flowers, 
Of  a  ramble  I  took  one  bright  afternoon 
When  my  heart  was  as  light  as  a  blossom  in  June; 
The  green   earth   was  moist   with  the   late  fallen 
showers,  5 

The  breeze  fluttered  down  and  blew  open  the  flowers, 
While  a  single  white  cloud,  to  its  haven  of  rest 
On  the  white  wing  of  peace,  floated  off  in  the  west. 

As  I  threw  back  my  tresses  to  catch  the  cool  breeze, 
That  scattered  the  rain-drops  and  dimpled  the  seas, 10 
Far  up  the  blue  sky  a  fair  rainbow  unrolled 
Its  soft-tinted  pinions  of  purple  and  gold. 

96 


AMELIA   B.    WELBY 


'Twas  born  in  a  moment,  yet,  quick  as  its  birth, 
It  had  stretched  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth, 
And,  fair  as  an  angel,  it  floated  as  free,  15 

With  a  wing  on  the  earth  and  a  wing  on  the  sea. 

How  calm  was  the  ocean !  how  gentle  its  swell ! 
Like  a  woman's  soft  bosom  it  rose  and  it  fell ; 
While  its  light,  sparkling  waves,  stealing  laughingly 

o'er, 
When  they  saw  the  fair  rainbow,  knelt  down  on  the 

shore.  20 

No  sweet  hymn  ascended,  no  murmur  of  prayer, 
Yet  I  felt  that  the  spirit  of  worship  was  there, 
And  bent  my  young  head,  in  devotion  and  love, 
'Neath  the  form  of  the  angel,  that  floated  above. 

How  wide  was  the  sweep  of  its  beautiful  wings !      25 
How  boundless  its  circle !  how  radiant  its  rings ! 
If  I  looked  on  the  sky,  'twas  suspended  in  air; 
If  I  looked  on  the  ocean,  the  rainbow  was  there ; 
Thus  forming  a  girdle,  as  brilliant  and  whole 
As  the  thoughts  of  the  rainbow,  that  circled  my 
soul.  30 

Like  the  wing  of  the  Deity,  calmly  unfurled, 
It  bent  from  the  cloud  and  encircled  the  world. 

There  are  moments,  I  think,  when  the  spirit  receives 
Whole  volumes  of  thought  on  its  unwritten  leaves, 
When  the  folds  of  the  heart  in  a  moment  unclose    35 
Like  the  innermost  leaves  from  the  heart  of  a  rose. 
And  thus,  when  the  rainbow  had  passed  from  the  sky, 
The  thoughts  it  awoke  were  too  deep  to  pass  by; 
It  left  my  full  soul,  like  the  wing  of  a  dove, 
All   fluttering  with  pleasure,    and   fluttering  with 
love.  4° 

97 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

I  know  that  each  moment  of  rapture  or  pain 
But  shortens  the  links  in  life's  mystical  chain; 
I  know  that  my  form,  like  that  bow  from  the  wave, 
Must  pass  from  the  earth,  and  lie  cold  in  the  grave ; 
Yet  oh !  when  death's  shadows  my  bosom  encloud,    45 
When  I  shrink  at  the  thought  of  the  coffin  and  shroud, 
May  Hope,  like  the  rainbow,  my  spirit  enfold 
In  her  beautiful  pinions  of  purple  and  gold. 

TWILIGHT  AT  SEA 

The  twilight  hours,  like  birds,  flew  by, 

As  lightly  and  as  free; 
Ten  thousand  stars  were  in  the  sky, 

Ten  thousand  in  the  sea: 
For  every  wave,  with  dimpled  face,  5 

That  leaped  into  the  air, 
Had  caught  a  star  in  its  embrace 

And  held  it  trembling  there. 

THE  RAINBOW.  18.  Is  this  a  figure?  20.  What 
figure  here?  33.  Is  there  a  change  of  treatment  at 
this  point?  What,  if  so?  43,  44.  Is  this  figure  ac- 
curately applied  ? 

TWILIGHT  AT  SEA.    A  delicate  bit  of  fancy. 


Theodore  O'Hara 

1820-1867 

Theodore  O'Hara,  the  author  of  a  few  stirring 
lyrics,  was  the  son  of  Kane  O'Hara,  a  political  exile 
from  Ireland.  He  was  born  in  Danville,  Ky.,  and 
was  educated  at  St.  Joseph's  Academy,  where  he 
taught  Greek  while  he  was  finishing  his  studies. 
After  graduation  he  read  law  and  was  admitted  to 
the  bar.  Later  he  was  employed  in  the  Treasury 
Department  at  Washington. 

He  took  part  in  the  Mexican  War,  first  as  a  cap- 
tain of  volunteers,  but  afterwards  was  advanced  to 
major,  for  gallantry  on  the  field,  and  to  yet  higher 
honors  in  the  service.  At  the  close  of  this  war  he 
returned  to  Washington  and  resumed  the  practice 
of  his  profession.  Turning  his  face  southward  again, 
he  became  editorially  connected  at  different  times 
with  the  Mobile  Register,  the  Louisville  Times,  and 
the  Frankfort  Yeoman.  Moreover,  the  government 
sent  him  on  several  diplomatic  missions. 

He  became  a  colonel  in  the  Civil  War,  and  served 
on  the  staffs  of  Generals  A.  S.  Johnston  and  J.  C. 
Breckinridge.  After  the  war  he  settled  in  Columbus, 
Ga.,  where  he  engaged  in  the  cotton  business.  Losing 
everything  by  fire,  he  removed  to  a  plantation  in  Ala- 
bama, where  he  died.  He  was  buried  in  Columbus, 
but  by  an  act  of  the  Kentucky  legislature  his  remains 
were  reinterred  in  Frankfort  amid  those  whom  his 
noble  stanzas  commemorate. 

99 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 


THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD 

The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo; 
No  more  on  life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground  6 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And  Glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind;  10 

No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms; 
No  braying  horn  nor  screaming  fife  15 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 

Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust, 

Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed; 
Their  haughty  banner,  trailed  in  dust, 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud.  20 

And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 

The  red  stains  from  each  brow, 
And  the  proud  forms,  by  battle  gashed, 

Are  free  from  anguish  now. 

The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade,          25 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 
The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout,  are  past; 
100 


THEODORE   O'HARA 


Nor  war's  wild  note,  nor  glory's  peal 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight  w 

Those  breasts  that  never  more  may  feel 
The  rapture  of  the  fight. 

Like  the  fierce  northern  hurricane 

That  sweeps  this  great  plateau, 
Flushed  with  triumph  yet  to  gain, 

Came  down  the  serried  foe. 
Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath, 
Knew  well  the  watchword  of  that  day 

Was  "  Victory  or  death."  40 

Long  has  the  doubtful  conflict  raged 

O'er  all  that  stricken  plain, 
For  never  fiercer  fight  had  waged 

The  vengeful  blood  of  Spain; 
And  still  the  storm  of  battle  blew,  45 

Still  swelled  the  gory  tide; 
Not  long,  our  stout  old  chieftain  knew, 

Such  odds  his  strength  could  bide. 

'Twas  in  that  hour  his  stern  command 

Called  to  a  martyr's  grave  50 

The  flower  of  his  beloved  band 

The  nation's  flag  to  save. 
By  rivers  of  their  fathers'  gore 

His  first-born  laurels  grew, 
And  well  he  deemed  the  sons  would  pour      65 

Their  lives  for  glory  too. 

Full  many  a  norther's  breath  has  swept 

O'er  Angostura's  plain — 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 

Above  its  mouldering  slain.  60 

101 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

The  raven's  scream,  or  eagle's  flight, 

Or  shepherd's  pensive  lay, 
Alone  awakes  each  sullen  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  dread  fray. 

Sons  of  the  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground,         65 

Ye  must  not  slumher  there, 
Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resound 

Along  the  heedless  air. 
Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

Shall  be  your  fitter  grave ;  70 

She  claims  from  War  his  richest  spoil — 

The  ashes  of  her  brave. 

Thus  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 

Far  from  the  gory  field; 
Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast  75 

On  many  a  bloody  shield; 
The  sunlight  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here, 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulchre.  80 

Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead, 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave, 
No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave. 
Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot  86 

While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  Valor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell  90 

When  many  a  vanished  age  hath  flown, 
The  story  how  ye  fell; 
102 


THEODORE  O'HARA 


Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom, 
Shall  dim  one  ray  of  glory's  light  w 

That  gilds  your  glorious  tomb. 

When  the  remains  of  the  Kentucky  soldiers  who 
fell  at  Buena  Vista  were  brought  back  to  Frankfort 
this  lyric  was  written  for  the  occasion.  It  burns 
with  a  living  fire.  Lines  from  it  are  engraved  on 
tablets  in  many  of  the  National  cemeteries.  7. 
"  Round  " :  the  beat  of  a  sentry.  8.  "  Bivouac  " :  de- 
fine. 16.  "Braying — screaming":  felicitous  epi- 
thets. 36.  "  The  serried  foe " :  the  Mexicans  under 
Santa  Anna.  37.  "Who":  he  who.  47.  "Stout 
old  chieftain":  Taylor,  the  American  commander. 
58.  "  Angostura's  plain  " :  a  pass  held  by  the  Ameri- 
cans in  the  battle  of  Buena  Vista.  65.  Kentucky, 
an  Indian  name,  means  "the  Dark  and  Bloody 
Ground."  75.  The  Spartan  mother  bade  her  son 
return  with  his  shield  or  on  it. 


103 


Henry  Rootes  Jackson 
1820-1898 

Mr.  Jackson,  a  native  of  Georgia,  was  a  graduate 
of  Yale,  1839,  and  the  next  year  was  admitted  to  the 
bar  of  his  State.  He  was  appointed  United  States 
District  Attorney  three  years  later.  After  serving  as 
colonel  of  a  Georgia  regiment  in  the  Mexican  War, 
he  was  for  a  year  editor  of  the  Savannah  Georgian. 

He  arose  in  his  profession  to  be  judge  of  the  supe- 
rior court,  and  was  appointed  consul  at  the  court  of 
Austria,  the  next  year  becoming  resident  minister 
there.  Eesigning  this  post,  he  returned  to  Savannah, 
and  for  a  brief  period  was  chancellor  of  the  Univer- 
sity of  Georgia. 

In  the  Civil  War  he  became  a  brigadier-general 
in  the  Confederate  Army,  and  was  captured,  with  all 
his  forces,  in  the  fight  at  Nashville.  Upon  his  lib- 
eration at  the  close  of  the  war  he  returned  to  Savan- 
nah and  took  up  anew  his  practice  of  law.  He  was 
sent  on  one  more  diplomatic  mission, — as  minister 
to  Mexico, — but  he  resigned  in  a  few  months. 

He  was  a  prominent  figure  in  the  literature,  art, 
science,  and  education  of  his  State.  "  Tallulah  and 
Other  Poems,"  printed  in  Savannah,  1851,  repre- 
sents his  contribution  to  poesy. 

THE  EED  OLD  HILLS  OF  GEOEGIA 

The  red  old  hills  of  Georgia! 

So  bold  and  bare  and  bleak, 
Their  memory  fills  my  spirit 

With  thoughts  I  cannot  speak. 
104 


HENRY  ROOTES  JACKSON 


They  have  no  robe  of  verdure,  5 

Stript  naked  to  the  blast; 
And  yet  of  all  the  varied  earth 

I  love  them  best  at  last. 

The  red  old  hills  of  Georgia! 

My  heart  is  on  them  now;  10 

Where,  fed  from  golden  streamlets, 

Oconee's  waters  flow! 
I  love  them  with  devotion, 

Though  washed  so  bleak  and  bare ; — 
How  can  my  spirit  e'er  forget  15 

The  warm  hearts  dwelling  there? 

I  love  them  for  the  living, 

The  generous,  kind,  and  gay; 
And  for  the  dead  who  slumber 

Within  their  breast  of  clay.  *° 

I  love  them  for  the  bounty 

Which  cheers  the  social  hearth; 
I  love  them  for  their  rosy  girls, 

The  fairest  on  the  earth. 

The  red  old  hills  of  Georgia!  26 

Where,  where,  upon  the  face 
Of  earth  is  freedom's  spirit 

More  bright  in  any  race? — 
In  Switzerland  and  Scotland 

Each  patriot  breast  it  fills,  w 

But  sure  it  blazes  brighter  yet 

Among  our  Georgia  hills! 

And  where,  upon  their  surface, 

Is  heart  to  feeling  dead  ? — 
And  when  has  needy  stranger  M 

Gone  from  those  hills  unfed? 
105 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

There  bravery  and  kindness 

For  aye  go  hand  in  hand, 
Upon  your  washed  and  naked  hills, 

"  My  own,  my  native  land ! "  40 

The  red  old  hills  of  Georgia! 

I  never  can  forget; 
Amid  life's  joys  and  sorrows, 

My  heart  is  on  them  yet; — 
And  when  my  course  is  ended,  4B 

When  life  her  web  has  wove, 
Oh!  may  I  then,  beneath  those  hills, 

Lie  close  to  them  I  love! 

MY  WIFE  AND  CHILD 

The  tattoo  beats,  the  lights  are  gone, 
The  camp  around  in  slumber  lies, 

The  night  with  solemn  pace  moves  on, 
The  shadows  thicken  o'er  the  skies; 

But  sleep  my  weary  eyes  hath  flown,  5 

And  sad,  uneasy  thoughts  arise. 

I  think  of  thee,  oh,  darling  one, 

Whose  love  my  early  life  hath  blest, — 

Of  thee  and  him — our  baby  son — 
Who  slumbers  on  thy  gentle  breast.  10 

God  of  the  tender,  frail,  and  lone, 
Oh,  guard  the  tender  sleeper's  rest ! 

And  hover  gently,  hover  near 

To  her  whose  watchful  eye  is  wet, — 

To  mother,  wife — the  doubly  dear,  15 

In  whose  young  heart  have  freshly  met 

Two  streams  of  love  so  deep  and  clear, 

And  cheer  her  drooping  spirit?  yet. 

106 


-       HENRY   ROOTES   JACKSON 

Now  while  she  kneels  before  Thy  throne, 
Oh,  teach  her,  Euler  of  the  skies,  20 

That,  while  by  Thy  behest  alone 
Earth's  mightiest  powers  fall  or  rise, 

No  tear  is  wept  to  Thee  unknown, 
No  hair  is  lost,  no  sparrow  dies ! 

That  Thou  canst  stay  the  ruthless  hand        25 
Of  dark  disease,  and  soothe  its  pain; 

That  only  by  Thy  stern  command 
The  battle's  lost,  the  soldier's  slain; 

That  from  the  distant  sea  or  land 

Thou  bring'st  the  wanderer  home  again.  30 

And  when  upon  her  pillow  lone 
Her  tear-wet  cheek  is  sadly  pressed, 

May  happier  visions  beam  upon 

The  brightening  current  of  her  breast, 

No  frowning  look  or  angry  tone  85 

Disturb  the  Sabbath  of  her  rest ! 

THE  RED  OLD  HILLS  OP  GEORGIA.  A  patriotic 
lyric.  Is  the  feeling  sincere?  Scan  the  first  stanza 
and  analyze  it.  8.  "  At  last " :  does  this  phrase  fall 
naturally  to  its  place?  12.  "Oconee":  one  of  the 
tributaries  of  the  Altamaha.  22.  "  Social  hearth  " : 
figure  ?  40.  A  quotation  from  Scotf s  "  Lay  of  the 
Last  Minstrel."  46.  Criticise  this. 

MY  WIFE  AND  CHILD.  What  is  the  theme  in  this  ? 
The  stanza  structure  and  measure?  1.  "Tattoo": 
a  beat  of  drum  at  night,  signalling  the  soldiers  to 
their  tents.  11,12.  This  is  fervent.  24.  Allusion? 
25-30.  The  grammatical  relation  of  this? 


107 


Francis  Orray  Ticknor 

1822-1874 

Ticknor,  too,  belongs  to  Georgia,  and  does  honor 
to  the  State.  After  studying  medicine  in  New  York 
and  Philadelphia  he  took  up  his  lifework  at  his 
country  residence,  "Torch  Hill/'  near  Columbus. 
He  wrote  because  he  could  not  but  write;  and  from 
the  character  of  the  bits  he  left  one  wishes  he  had 
devoted  more  time  to  poetry.  In  1879  some  of  his 
fugitives  were  collected  and  published  under  the  title, 
"  Poems,"  edited  by  Paul  H.  Hayne. 

VIRGINIANS    OF   THE   VALLEY 

The  Knightliest  of  the  Knightly  race, 

That  since  the  days  of  old, 
Have  kept  the  lamp  of  chivalry 

Alight  in  hearts  of  gold. 
The  kindliest  of  the  kindly  band  5 

That  rarely  hating  ease! 
Yet  rode  with  Ealeigh  round  the  land, 

With  Smith  around  the  seas. 

Who  climbed  the  blue  embattled  hills 

Against  uncounted  foes,  10 

And  planted  there,  in  valleys  fair, 

The  Lily  and  the  Eose ! 
Whose  fragrance  lives  in  many  lands, 

Whose  beauty  stars  the  earth; 
And  lights  the  hearths  of  happy  homes        15 

With  loveliness  and  worth! 
108 


FRANCIS  ORRAY  TICKNOR 

We  thought  they  slept!  the  men  who  kept 

The  names  of  noble  sires, 
And  slumbered  while  the  darkness  crept 

Around  their  vigil  fires! 
But  aye!  the  golden  horseshoe  Knights 

Their  Old  Dominion  keep, 
Whose  foes  have  found  enchanted  ground 

But  not  a  knight  asleep. 


LITTLE  GIFFEN 

Out  of  the  focal  and  foremost  fire — 
Out  of  the  hospital  walls  as  dire — 
Smitten  of  grapeshot  and  gangrene — - 
Eighteenth  battle  and  he,  sixteen — 
Spectre,  such  as  you  seldom  see,  6 

Little  Giffen  of  Tennessee. 

"  Take  him  and  welcome,"  the  surgeon  said, 
"  Not  the  doctor  can  help  the  dead ! " 
So  we  took  him  and  brought  him  where 
The  balm  was  sweet  in  our  Summer  air;    10 
And  we  laid  him  down  on  a  wholesome  bed; 
Utter  Lazarus,  heel  to  head ! 

And  we  watched  the  war  with  abated  breath, 
Skeleton  boy  against  skeleton  death! — 
Months  of  torture,  how  many  such  I  15 

Weary  weeks  of  the  stick  and  crutch, — 
And  still  a  glint  in  the  steel-blue  eye 
Told  of  a  spirit  that  wouldn't  die, 

And  didn't! — Nay!  more!  in  death's  despite 
The  crippled  skeleton  learned  to  write —  20 

109 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

"  Dear  Mother ! "  at  first,  of  course,  and 

then 

"  Dear  Captain ! "  enquiring  about  the  men. 
— Captain's  answer :  "  Of  eighty  and  five 
Giffen  and  I  are  left  alive." 

"  Johnston  pressed  at  the  front,"  they  say ; —  25 
Little  Giffen  was  up  and  away! 
A  tear,  his  first,  as  he  bade  good-bye 
Dimmed  the  glint  of  his  steel-blue  eye; — 
"  I'll  write,  if  spared !  "    There  was  news  of 

fight, 
But  none  of  Giffen !  he  did  not  write ! 

I  sometimes  fancy  that  were  I  King 

Of  the  courtly  Knights  of  Arthur's  ring, 

With  the  voice  of  the  minstrel  in  mine  ear 

And  the  tender  legend  that  trembles  here — 

Fd  give  the  best  on  his  bended  knee —  35 

The  whitest  soul  of  my  chivalry — 

For  Little  Giffen  of  Tennessee. 


LOYAL 

The  Douglas — in  the  days  of  old — 
The  gentle  minstrels  sing, 

Wore  at  his  heart,  encased  in  gold, 
The  heart  of  Bruce,  his  King. 

Through  Paynim  lands  to  Palestine, 

Befall  what  peril  might, 
To  lay  that  heart  on  Christ  his  shrine 

His  Knightly  word  he  plight. 
110 


FRANCIS  ORRAY  TICKNOR 

A  weary  way,  by  night  and  day, 

Of  vigil  and  of  fight,  10 

Where  never  rescue  came  by  day 

NOT  ever  rest  by  night. 

And  one  by  one  the  valiant  spears, 

They  faltered  from  his  side; 
And  one  by  one  his  heavy  tears  1B 

Fell  for  the  Brave  who  died. 

Till  fierce  and  black,  around  his  track, 

He  saw  the  combat  close, 
And  counted  but  a  single  sword 

Against  uncounted  foes.  20 

He  drew  the  casket  from  his  breast, 

He  bared  his  solemn  brow, 
Oh,  Kingliest  and  Knightliest, 

Go  first  in  battle,  now! 

Where  leads  my  Lord  of  Bruce,  the  Sword    *5 

Of  Douglas  shall  not  stay ! 
Forward !  and  to  the  feet  of  Christ 

I  follow  thee,  to-day. 

The  casket  flashed !    The  Battle  clashed, 
Thundered  and  rolled  away.  30 

And  dead  above  the  Heart  of  Bruce 
The  heart  of  Douglas  lay. 

"  Loyal !  "     Methinks  the  antique  mould 

Is  lost ! — or  Theirs  alone, 
Who  sheltered  Freedom's  heart  of  gold, 

Like  Douglas  with  their  own! 
Ill 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

VIRGINIANS  OP  THE  VALLEY.  6.  Explain.  7. 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  the  first  projector  of  colonies  in 
the  New  World.  He  did  not  attend  the  expedition; 
so  what  figure  in  "rode  with  Raleigh"?  9.  " Em- 
battled ":  in  what  sense?  12.  "Lily  and  Rose": 
symbolical.  To  whom  do  they  refer?  13-16.  Give 
the  meaning.  21.  "  The  golden  horseshoe  Knights  " : 
followers  of  Spotswood,  a  Virginia  pioneer,  each 
having  been  given  a  golden  horseshoe. 

LITTLE  GIFFEN.  There  is  intense  energy  in  this 
poem,  written  in  honor  of  a  little  Tennessee  lad  who 
was  wounded  probably  at  the  battle  of  Murfrees- 
boro.  Dr.  Ticknor  nursed  him  back  to  life  at  "  Torch 
Hill."  13.  Explain.  25.  "Johnston":  Joseph  E., 
a  Confederate  general.  29.  Giffen  was  killed,  but 
in  what  battle  it  is  not  known, — in  some  fight  near 
Atlanta,  in  1864.  31-37.  What  reference  here? 

LOYAL.  These  ringing  lines  were  written  in 
memory  of  General  Cleburne,  who  at  the  battle  of 
Franklin  was  ordered  to  storm  some  difficult  posi- 
tion. Against  his  better  judgment  he  obeyed  the 
command  and  lost  his  life.  It  will  be  noticed  that 
the  only  direct  reference  to  the  hero  is  made  in  the 
last  stanza,  but  he  was  all  that  Douglas  was.  4. 
"  Bruce  " :  the  Scottish  king  had  planned  to  go  upon 
a  crusade  to  the  Holy  Land,  but  never  carried  out 
his  wish.  At  his  death,  legend  has  it,  he  entrusted 
his  heart  to  Douglas,  with  the  request  that  he  take  it 
to  Jerusalem.  5.  "  Paynim  " :  heathen.  7.  "  Christ 
his  shrine":  an  early  way  of  expressing  possession. 
13.  "Valiant  spears":  what  figure?  29,  30.  Fig- 
ures in  these  lines? 


112 


John  Reuben  Thompson 
1823-1873 

As  editor  of  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger 
Thompson  did  much  toward  creating  and  nurturing  a 
love  of  letters  in  the  South.  Through  the  pages  of 
that  journal  many  whose  names  are  now  household 
words  first  found  voice. 

He  was  a  Virginian;  a  graduate  of  the  University 
of  that  State.  The  law  was  his  chosen  field,  but  was 
abandoned  for  literature.  Failing  health  compelled 
him  to  give  up  the  Messenger  and  leave  Eichmond 
in  search  of  a  more  genial  climate.  He  first  went  to 
Augusta,  and  undertook  the  editorship  of  the  South' 
ern  Field  and  Fireside,  but,  finding  no  restoration, 
he  went  to  London,  where  he  resided  for  several 
years.  Afterwards  he  returned  to  America  and  be- 
came literary  editor  of  the  New  York  Evening  Post, 
a  position  he  filled  with  great  acceptability.  Forced 
to  give  this  up,  he  wandered  again,  sojourning  a  while 
in  Colorado  and  elsewhere,  yet  receiving  no  perma- 
nent benefit.  In  1873  he  died  in  New  York,  and 
was  buried  in  Eichmond. 

Within  the  past  few  years  Dr.  Kent,  of  the  Uni- 
versity of  Virginia,  has  planned  a  collection  of  his 
poems. 

MUSIC   IN   CAMP 

Two  armies  covered  hill  and  plain, 
Where  Eappahannock's  waters 

Kan  deeply  crimsoned  with  the  stain 
Of  battle's  recent  slaughters. 
113 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

The  summer  clouds  lay  pitched  like  tents  5 

In  meads  of  heavenly  azure; 
And  each  dread  gun  of  the  elements 

Slept  in  its  embrasure. 

The  breeze  so  softly  blew,  it  made 

No  forest  leaf  to  quiver, 
And  the  smoke  of  the  random  cannonade 

Boiled  slowly  from  the  river. 

And  now,  where  circling  hills  looked  down 

With  cannon  grimly  planted, 
O'er  listless  camp  and  silent  town  15 

The  golden  sunset  slanted. 

When  on  the  fervid  air  there  came 

A  strain — now  rich,  now  tender; 
The  music  seemed  itself  aflame 

With  day's  departing  splendor.  20 

A  Federal  band,  which,  eve  and  morn, 
Played  measures  brave  and  nimble, 

Had  just  struck  up,  with  flute  and  horn 
And  lively  clash  of  cymbal. 

Down  flocked  the  soldiers  to  the  banks,  25 

Till,  margined  by  its  pebbles, 
One  wooded  shore  was  blue  with  "  Yanks," 

And  one  was  gray  with  "  Rebels." 

Then  all  was  still,  and  then  the  band, 

With  movement  light  and  tricksy,  30 

Made  stream  and  forest,  hill  and  strand, 
Reverberate  with  "Dixie." 
114 


JOHN   REUBEN    THOMPSON 

The  conscious  stream  with  burnished  glow 

Went  proudly  o'er  its  pebbles, 
But  thrilled  throughout  its  deepest  flow  3B 

With  yelling  of  the  Eebels. 

Again  a  pause,  and  then  again 

The  trumpets  pealed  sonorous, 
And  "  Yankee  Doodle  "  was  the  strain 

To  which  the  shore  gave  chorus.  40 

The  laughing  ripple  shoreward  flew, 

To  kiss  the  shining  pebbles; 
Loud  shrieked  the  swarming  Boys  in  Blue 

Defiance  to  the  Eebels. 

And  yet  once  more  the  bugle  sang  45 

Above  the  stormy  riot; 
No  shout  upon  the  evening  rang — 

There  reigned  a  holy  quiet. 

The  sad,  slow  stream  its  noiseless  flood 

Poured  o'er  the  glistening  pebbles;  50 

All  silent  now  the  Yankees  stood, 
And  silent  stood  the  Kebels. 

No  unresponsive  soul  had  heard 

That  plaintive  note's  appealing, 
So  deeply  "  Home,  Sweet  Home  "  had  stirred  55 

The  hidden  founts  of  feeling. 

Or  Blue,  or  Gray,  the  soldier  sees 

As  by  the  wand  of  fairy, 
The  cottage  'neath  the  live-oak  trees, 

The  cabin  by  the  prairie.  60 

115 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Or  cold,  or  warm,  his  native  skies 

Bend  in  their  beauty  o'er  him; 
Seen  through  the  tear-mist  in  his  eyes, 

His  loved  ones  stand  before  him. 

As  fades  the  iris  after  rain  65 

In  April's  tearful  weather, 
The  vision  vanished,  as  the  strain 

And  daylight  died  together. 

But  memory,  waked  by  music's  art, 

Expressed  in  simplest  numbers,  70 

Subdued  the  sternest  Yankee's  heart, 

Made  light  the  Eebel's  slumbers. 

And  fair  the  form  of  music  shines, 

That  bright  celestial  creature, 
Who  still,  'mid  war's  embattled  lines,  76 

€rave  this  one  touch  of  Nature. 


ASHBY 

To  the  brave  all  homage  render, 

Weep,  ye  skies  of  June! 
With  a  radiance  pure  and  tender, 

Shine,  oh  saddened  moon ! 
"  Dead  upon  the  field  of  glory ,"  5 

Hero  fit  for  song  and  story, 

Ides  our  bold  dragoon. 

Well  they  learned,  whose  hands  have  slain  him, 

Braver,  knightlier  foe 
Never  fought  with  Moor  nor  Paynim,  10 

Rode  at  Templestowe; 
116 


JOHN   REUBEN    THOMPSON 

With  a  mien  how  high  and  joyous, 
'Gainst  the  hordes  that  would  destroy  us 
Went  he  forth  we  know. 

Never  more,  alas!  shall  sabre  1B 

Gleam  around  his  crest; 
Fought  his  fight;  fulfilled  his  labour; 

Stilled  his  manly  breast. 
All  unheard  sweet  Nature  cadence, 
Trump  of  fame  and  voice  of  maidens,  20 

Now  he  takes  his  rest. 

Earth  that  all  too  soon  hath  bound  him, 

Gently  wrap  his  clay; 
Linger  lovingly  around  him, 

Light  of  dying  day ;  25 

Softly  fall  the  summer  showers, 
Birds  and  bees  among  the  flowers 

Make  the  gloom  seem  gay. 

There,  throughout  the  coming  ages, 

When  his  sword  is  rust,  30 

And  his  deeds  in  classic  pages, 
Mindful  of  her  trust, 

Shall  Virginia,  bending  lowly, 

Still  a  ceaseless  vigil  holy 
Keep  above  his  dust !  S5 

Music  IN  CAMP.  This  narrates  a  true  incident  at 
the  battle  of  Fredericksburg.  8.  "Embrasure":  an 
aperture  in  a  fort  through  which  a  cannon  is  dis- 
charged. 12.  The  Rappahannock.  The  influence  of 
both  Shakespeare  and  Tennyson  is  seen  in  this  poem : 
where  ? 

ASHBY.     In  memory  of  Turner  Ashby,  a  gallant 

117 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

officer  in  the  Confederate  Army  who  lost  his  life  in 
battle  near  Harrisonburg,  June  6,  1862.  7.  "Dra- 
goon": a  soldier  trained  to  serve  either  on  horse 
or  on  foot.  11.  "  Templestowe " :  The  Castle  of 
Templestowe  was  one  of  the  "  preeeptories,"  or  for- 
tified lodges,  of  the  Knights  Templars,"  described  in 
Sir  Walter  Scott's  novel  "  Ivanhoe."  It  was  in  the 
tilt-yard  of  this  preceptory  that  the  mortal  combat 
took 'place  between  Sir  Wilfred  of  Ivanhoe  and  one 
of  the  Knights  of  the  Temple,  Sir  Brian  de  Bois- 
Guilbert.  23.  Bead  Collins'  "How  Sleep  the 
Brave." 


118 


James  Matthews  Legare 
1823-1859. 

Legare  was  a  native  of  Charleston,  S.  C.  He  was 
an  inventor  and  writer,  contributing  both  verse  and 
prose  to  various  magazines.  "  Orta-Undis,  and  Other 
Poems/'  published  in  1847,  contains  his  best  work. 
I  have  been  able  to  collect  very  few  facts  about  his 
life. 

TO  A  LILY 

Go  bow  thy  head  in  gentle  spite, 

Thou  lily  white, 

For  she  who  spies  thee  waving  here, 

With  thee  in  beauty  can  compare 

As  day  with  night.  5 

Soft  are  thy  leaves  and  white :  her  arms 

Boast  whiter  charms. 

Thy  stem  prone  bent  with  loveliness 

Of  maiden  grace  possesseth  less: 

Therein  she  charms.  10 

Thou  in  thy  lake  dost  see 

Thyself:  so  she 

Beholds  her  image  in  her  eyes 

Reflected.    Thus  did  Venus  rise 

From  out  the  sea.  15 

Inconsolate,  bloom  not  again. 

Thou  rival  vain 

Of  her  whose  charms  have  thine  outdone, 

Whose  purity  might  spot  the  sun, 

And  make  thy  leaf  a  stain.  20 

119 


A    STUDY   IN    SOUTHERN   POETRY 

AHAB  MOHAMMED 

A  peasant  stood  before  a  king  and  said, 

"  My  children  starve,  I  come  to  thee  for  bread/' 

On  cushions  soft  and  silken  sat  enthroned 

The   king,   and   looked   on   him   that   prayed    and 

moaned, 

Who  cried  again, — "  For  bread  I  come  to  thee/'      5 
For  grief,  like  wine,  the  tongue  will  render  free. 
Then  said  the  prince  with  simple  truth,  "  Behold 
I  sit  on  cushions  silken-soft,  of  gold 
And  wrought  with  skill  the  vessels  which  they  bring 
To  fitly  grace  the  banquet  of  a  king.  10 

But  at  my  gate  the  Mede  triumphant  beats, 
And  die  for  food  my  people  in  the  streets. 
Yet  no  good  father  hears  his  child  complain 
And  gives  him  stones  for  bread,  for  alms  disdain. 
Come,  thou  and  I  will  sup  together — come/'          15 
The  wondering  courtiers  saw — saw  and  were  dumb ; 
Then  followed  with  their  eyes  where  Ahab  led 
With  grace  the  humble  guest,  amazed,  to  share  his 

bread. 

Him  half  abashed  the  royal  host  withdrew 
Into  a  room,  the  curtained  doorway  through.  20 

Silent  behind  the  folds  of  purple  closed, 
In  marble  life  the  statues  stood  disposed; 
From  the  high  ceiling,  perfume  breathing,  hung 
Lamps  rich,  pomegranate-shaped,  and  golden-swung. 
Gorgeous  the  board  with  massive  metal  shone,          25 
Gorgeous  with  gems  arose  in  front  a  throne : 
These  through  the  Orient  lattice  saw  the  sun. 
If  gold  there  was,  of  meat  and  bread  was  none 
Save  one  small  loaf;  this  stretched  his  hand  and  took 
Ahab  Mohammed,  prayed  to  God,  and  broke :  30 

One  half  his  yearning  nature  bid  him  crave, 
120 


JAMES   MATTHEWS    LEGARE 

The  other  gladly  to  his  guest  he  gave. 
"  I  have  no  more  to  give,"  he  cheerily  said : 
"  With  thee  I  share  my  only  loaf  of  bread." 
Humbly  the  stranger  took  the  offered  crumb  35 

Yet  ate  not  of  it,  standing  meek  and  dumb; 
Then  lifts  his  eyes, — the  wondering  Ahab  saw 
His  rags  fall  from  him  as  the  snow  in  thaw. 
Resplendent,  blue,  those  orbs  upon  him  turned; 
All  Ahab's  soul  within  him  throbbed  and  burned.     40 

"  Ahab  Mohammed,"  spoke  the  vision  then, 

"  From  this  thou  shalt  be  blessed  among  men. 

Go  forth — thy  gates  the  Mede  bewildered  flees, 

And  Allah  thank  thy  people  on  their  knees. 

He  who  gives  somewhat  does  a  worthy  deed,  45 

Of  him  the  recording  angel  shall  take  heed. 

But  he  that  halves  all  that  his  house  doth  hold, 

His  deeds  are  more  to  God,  yea,  more  than  finest  gold." 


AMY 

This  is  the  pathway  where  she  walked, 
The  tender  grass  pressed  by  her  feet. 

The  laurel  boughs  laced  overhead,  . 
Shut  out  the  noonday  heat. 

The  sunshine  gladly  stole  between  6 

The  softly  undulating  limbs. 
From  every  blade  and  leaf  arose 

The  myriad  insect  hymns. 

A  brook  ran  murmuring  beneath 

The  grateful  twilight  of  the  trees,  10 

Where  from  the  dripping  pebbles  swelled 

A  beach's  mossy  knees. 
121 


A  STUDY  ^  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

N«' 

And  there  her  robe  of  spotless  white, 
(Pure  whits  such  purity  beseemed!) 

Her  angel  face,  and  tresses  bright  15 

Within  the  bacin  gleamed. 

The  coy  sweetbriers  half  detained 
Her  light  hem  as  we  moved  along ! 

To  hear  the  music  of  hei .  voice 

The  mockbird  hushed  his  song.  20 

But  now  her  little  feet  are  still, 
Her  lips  the  Everlasting  seal; 

The  hideous  secrets  of  the  grave 
The  weeping  eyes  reveal. 

The  path  still  winds,  the  brook  descends.     25 
The  skies  are  bright  as  then  they  were. 

My  Amy  is  the  only  leaf 
In  all  that  forest  sere. 

To  A  LILY.  A  piquant  love  lyric.  What  tone  per- 
vades it?  11.  Any  criticism  on  the  measure?  14. 
Venus,  the  goddess  of  love,  was  born  of  sea-foam. 

AHAB  MOHAMMED.  What  poem  by  another 
American  writer  works  to  the  same  conclusion  as 
this?  Read  also  "Abou  Ben  Adhem,"  by  Leigh 
Hunt.  14.  What  allusion?  18.  Does  it  differ  in 
measure?  38.  A  very  inapt  figure:  why?  43. 
"  The  Mede  ":  what  figure  and  why? 

AMY.  A  touching  lyric  of  grief.  23-28.  Give 
the  thought. 


122 


John  William  Palmer 
1825-1896 

Though  a  physician  by  profession,  Palmer  is  known 
better  as  an  author.  He  was  a  native  of  Baltimore, 
and  a  graduate  of  the  University  of  Maryland.  He 
practiced  medicine  in  San  Francisco,  going  later  as 
a  surgeon  on  the  East  India  Company's  war  steamer, 
Phlegethon,  in  the  Burmese  War.  In  the  Civil 
War  he  was  correspondent  for  the  New  York  Tribune, 
and  up  till  his  death  was  an  occasional  contributor 
to  periodicals.  He  translated  and  compiled  many 
volumes,  wrote  a  novel,  "After  His  Kind,"  under  the 
pen  name,  "John  Coventry,"  and  left  several  ballads 
of  native  strength.  "Stonewall  Jackson's  Way," 
given  below,  was  written  at  Oakland,  Md.,  September 
17,  while  the  battle  of  Antietam  was  in  progress. 

THE  FIGHT  AT  THE  SAN";  JACHSTTO 

"  Now  for  a  brisk  and  cheerful  fight! " 

Said  Harman  big  and  droll, 
As  he  coaxed  his  flint  and  steel  for  a  light, 

And  puffed  at  his  cold  clay  bowl; 
"For  we  are  a  skulking  lot,"  says  he,  5 

"  Of  land-thieves  hereabout, 
And  these  bold  senores,  two  to  one, 

Have  come  to  smoke  us  out." 

Santa  Anna  and  Castillon, 

Almonte  brave  and  gay,  10 

Portilla  red  from  Goliad, 

And  Cos  with  his  smart  array. 
123 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Dulces  and  cigarritos, 

And  the  light  guitar,  ting-turn! 
Sant'  Anna  courts  siesta,  15 

And  Sam  Houston  taps  his  drum. 

The  buck  stands  still  in  the  timber — • 

"Is  it  patter  of  nuts  that  fall?" 
The  foal  of  the  wild  mare  whinnies — 

Did  he  hear  the  Comanche  call  ?  20 

In  the  brake  by  the  crawling  bayou 

The  slinking  she-wolves  howl; 
And  the  mustang's  snort  in  the  river  sedge 

Has  startled  the  paddling  fowl. 

A  soft,  low  tap,  and  a  muffled  tap,  25 

And  a  roll  not  loud  nor  long — 
We  would  not  break  Sant'  Anna's  nap, 

Nor  spoil  Almonte's  song. 
Saddles  and  knives  and  rifles ! 

Lord !  but  the  men  were  glad  30 

When  Deaf  Smith  muttered  "  Alamo !  " 

And  Karnes  hissed  "  Goliad ! " 

The  drummer  tucked  his  sticks  in  his  belt, 

And  the  fifer  gripped  his  gun. 
Oh,  for  one  free,  wild,  Texan  yell,  35 

As  we  took  the  slope  in  a  run ! 
But  never  a  shout  nor  a  shot  we  spent, 

NOT  an  oath  nor  a  prayer,  that  day, 
Till  we  faced  the  bravos,  eye  to  eye, 

And  then  we  blazed  away.  40 

Then  we  knew  the  rapture  of  Ben  Milam, 
And  the  glory  that  Travis  made, 

With  Bowie's  lunge  and  Crockett's  shot, 
And  Fannin's  dancing  blade; 
124 


JOHN  WILLIAMSON   PALMER 

And  the  heart  of  the  fighter,  bounding  free   45 

In  his  joy  so  hot  and  mad — 
When  Millard  charged  for  Alamo, 

Lamar  for  Goliad. 

Deaf  Smith  rode  straight,  with  reeking  spur, 

Into  the  shock  and  rout :  60 

"  I've  hacked  and  burned  the  bayou  bridge 

There's  no  sneak's  back-way  out ! " 
Muzzle  or  butt  for  Goliad, 

Pistol  and  blade  and  fist 
Oh,  for  the  knife  that  never  glanced,  55 

And  the  gun  that  never  missed ! 

Dulces  and  cigarritos, 

Song  and  the  mandolin ! 
That  gory  swamp  is  a  gruesome  grove 

To  dance  fandangoes  in.  60 

We  bridged  the  bog  with  the  sprawling  herd 

That  fell  in  that  frantic  rout; 
We  slew  and  slew  till  the  sun  set  red, 

And  the  Texas  star  flashed  out. 


STONEWALL   JACKSON'S  WAY 

Come,  stack  arms,  men !    Pile  on  the  rails, 
Stir  up  the  camp-fire  bright; 

No  matter  if  the  canteen  fails, 
We'll  make  a  roaring  night. 
Here  Shenandoah  brawls  along, 

There  burly  Blue  Ridge  echoes  strong, 

To  swell  the  brigade's  rousing  song 
Of  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 


125 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

We  see  him  now, — the  old  slouched  hat 
Cocked  o'er  his  eye  askew;  10 

The  shrewd,  dry  smile,  the  speech  so  pat, 
So  calm,  so  blunt,  so  true. 

The  "Blue-Light  Elder"  knows  'em  well; 

Says  he,  "  That's  Banks,— he's  fond  of  shell; 

Lord  save  his  soul!  we'll  give  him  ;" 

well,  15 

That's  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

Silence !  ground  arms !  kneel  all !  caps  off ! 

Old  Blue-Light's  going  to  pray. 
Strangle  the  fool  that  dares  to  scoff ! 

Attention !  it's  his  way.  20 

Appealing  from  his  native  sod, 
In  forma  pauperis  to  God, 
"  Lay  bare  Thine  arm ;  stretch  forth  Thy  rod ! 
Amen !  »    That's  "  Stonewall's  way." 

He's  in  the  saddle  now.    Fall  in!  25 

Steady !  the  whole  brigade ! 
Hill's  at  the  ford,  cut  off;  we'll  win 

His  way  out,  ball  and  blade ! 
What  matter  if  our  shoes  are  worn  ? 
What  matter  if  our  feet  are  torn  ?  30 

"  Quick-step !  we're  with  him  before  morn !  " 

That's  "Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

The  sun's  bright  lances  rout  the  mists 

Of  morning,  and,  by  George! 
Here's  Longstreet  struggling  in  the  lists,          35 

Hemmed  in  an  ugly  gorge. 
Pope  and  his  Yankees,  whipped  before, 
"  Bay'nets  and  grape !  "  hear  Stonewall  roar ; 
"  Charge,  Stuart !    Pay  off  Ashby's  score !  " 

In  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  way."  40 

126 


JOHN   WILLIAMSON   PALMER 

Ah !  maiden,  wait  and  watch  and  yearn 

For  news  of  Stonewall's  band ! 
Ah !  widow,  read  with  eyes  that  burn 

That  ring  upon  thy  hand. 
Ah !  wife,  sew  on,  pray  on,  hope  on,  4i 

Thy  life  shall  not  be  all  forlorn; 
The  foe  had  better  ne'er  been  born 

That  gets  in  "  Stonewall's  way." 

THE  FIGHT  AT  SAN  JACINTO.  A  battle  of  the 
Mexican  War.  Classify  the  poem.  Point  out  pas- 
sages of  notable  grace;  as  9-16;  of  sound  correspond- 
ing to  sense,  as  14;  of  animated  description,  as  17-24 ; 
of  powerful  energy,  as  49-56.  Characterize  other 
lines.  Note  the  Spanish  names  used,  thus  giving 
local  color  to  the  work.  10.  "  Almonte  " :  one  of  the 
aides  of  Santa  Anna,  captured  in  this  fight.  11. 
"  Goliad  " :  county  seat  of  Goliad  county  in  southern 
Texas,  and  the  scene  of  a  most  perfidious  act  on  the 
part  of  the  Mexicans,  where  Colonel  James  W.  Fan- 
nin  and  over  three  hundred  Texans,  after  having 
surrendered  and  been  disarmed  on  the  understand- 
ing that  they  were  to  be  treated  as  prisoners  of  war, 
were  marched  out  and  shot  down.  42-44.  "Travis, 
Crockett,  Bowie":  Texan  leaders  who,  at  the  head 
of  140  men,  were  besieged  in  the  old  mission  sta- 
tion of  San  Antonio  de  Valerio  (otherwise  known 
as  the  Alamo)  by  4000  Mexicans,  February  23, 
1836.  For  ten  days  the  fort  was  defended  stub- 
bornly against  frequent  assaults,  and  appeals  for 
reinforcements  were  repeatedly  sent  out,  but  only 
thirty-two  men  could  get  through  the  Mexican  lines. 
On  the  sixth  of  March  three  attacks  were  made,  and 
the  handful  of  Texans  were  cut  down  until  only  six 
were  left :  Joseph  Travis,  David  Crockett,  and  James 

127, 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Bowie,  with  three  others.  They  fought  desperately 
in  a  hand-to-hand  struggle,  and  surrendered  only 
under  promise  of  protection,  but  Santa  Anna  again 
was  faithless  to  his  promise,  and  ordered  them  to  be 
hacked  to  pieces.  Hence,  "  Eemember  the  Alamo !  " 
was  the  battle  cry  at  San  Jacinto.  Discuss  other 
characters  and  places  named. 

This  lyric  has  all  the  dash  and  fire  of  a  cavalry 
charge. 

STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  WAY.  A  lyric  of  praise, 
Characterize  its  style.  Is  it  graphic,  strong,  ani- 
mated, elliptical?  13.  "Blue-Light  Elder."  Jack- 
son was  a  Presbyterian  elder.  Blue-light  is  a  compo- 
sition used  in  war  to  give  signals ;  so  called  from  the 
color  of  its  flame.  14.  "Banks":  the  Federal  com- 
mander that  Jackson  pounced  upon  in  the  Valley  of 
Virginia.  22.  "Forma  pauperis":  posture  of  a 
beggar.  27.  "Hill":  a  Confederate  general.  Lo- 
cate other  leaders  mentioned. 


128 


Augustus  Julian  Requier 

1825-1887 

Judge  Requier,  a  South  Carolinian,  was  of  French 
descent.  He  was  educated  in  his  native  city,  Charles- 
ton, and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  at  nineteen.  His 
first  contributions  to  letters  began  to  appear  earlier 
than  this,  even.  In  1850  he  removed  to  Mobile, 
where  he  was  appointed  United  States  District  At- 
torney. During  the  Civil  War  he  was  Attorney  for 
Alabama,  and  at  the  close  of  hostilities  he  went  to 
New  York  City  and  established  a  practice. 

As  an  author  he  is  known  in  several  departments : 
fiction,  drama,  law,  essay,  poetry.  He  won  success 
in  all,  but  distinction  in  his  lyrics.  They  deserve 
more  careful  study  than  they  have  yet  received,  for 
they  are  chaste,  logical,  vigorous,  symmetrical.  His 
"Crystalline,"  "Legend  of  Tremaine,"  "Ode  to 
Shakespeare,"  and  "  Ode  to  Victory,"  while  too  long 
to  use  here,  are  worthy  of  close  analysis.  His 
"  Poems  "  appeared  in  Philadelphia  in  1859,  and  he 
purposed  to  prepare  another  volume  embodying  his 
later  songs,  but  this  has  never  been  published. 

ASHES   OF  GLORY 

Fold  up  the  gorgeous  silken  sun, 

By  bleeding  martyrs  blest, 
And  heap  the  laurels  it  has  won 

Above  its  place  of  rest. 

129 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

No  trumpet  note  need  harshly  blare, —  5 

No  drum  funereal  roll, — 
No  trailing  sables  drape  the  bier 

That  frees  a  dauntless  soul. 

It  lived  with  Lee,  and  decked  his  brow 

With  fate's  empyreal  palm; 
It  sleeps  the  sleep  of  Jackson  now, — • 

As  spotless  and  as  calm. 

It  was  outnumbered — not  outdone; 

And  they  shall  shuddering  tell, 
Who  struck  the  blow,  its  latest  gun  15 

Flashed  ruin  as  it  fell. 

Sleep,  shrouded  ensign !    Not  the  breeze 

That  smote  the  victor  tar 
With  death  across  the  heaving  seas 

Of  fiery  Trafalgar;  20 

Not  Arthur's  knights  amid  the  gloom 
Their  knightly  deeds  have  starred ; 

Nor  Gallic  Henry's  matchless  plume. 
Nor  peerless-born  Bayard; 

Not  all  that  antique  fables  feign,  25 

And  orient  dreams  disgorge; 
Nor  yet  the  silver  cross  of  Spain, 

And  Lion  of  St.  George, 

Can  bid  thee  pale !    Proud  emblem,  still 
Thy  crimson  glory  shines  30 

Beyond  the  lengthened  shades  that  fill 
Their  proudest  kingly  lines. 

ISO 


AUGUSTUS   JULIAN   REQUIER 

Sleep !  in  thine  own  historic  night, — 

And  be  thy  blazoned  scroll ; 
'A  warriors  banner  takes  its  flight  35 

To  greet  the  warrior's  soul. 

WHO  WAS  IT? 

I  met — when  was  it?    Oh!  between 

The  sunset  and  the  morn 
Of  one  indelible  day  as  green 

As  Memory's  eldest  born. 
I  met  her  where  the  grasses  grow —  5 

Away  from  tower  and  town — 
Whose  gypsy  bonnet  dipt  the  glow 

Of  chestnut  isles  of  brown ! 

I  asked  the  rose  to  breathe  her  name; 

She  pouted  and  she  said,  10 

She  could  not  speak  of  her  who  came 

To  pale  her  richest  red. 
I  asked  the  lily,  ripple-rimmed, — 

A  flake-like  curve  of  snow — 
She  sighed  her  glory  had  been  dimmed         1B 

By  one  she  did  not  know. 

I  stooped  beside  a  tufted  bed 

Of  leaflets  moist  with  dew, 
Where  one  sweet  posy  hung  its  head 

Of  deep,  di vines t  blue; 
And  asked  the  violet  if  her  power 

Could  reach  that  spell  of  flame : — 
She  smiled,  "  I  am  her  favorite  flower, 

And — Lizzie! — is  her  name." 


131 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 


ONLY  A  DREAM 

By  the  lake  beyond  the  meadow, 

Where  the  lilies  blow — 
As  the  young  moon  dipt  and  lifted 

Her  reflected  bow — 
Lived  and  died  a  dream  of  beauty  6 

Many  years  ago. 

Something  made  the  milk-white  blossoms 

Even  whiter  grow ; 
Something  gave  the  dying  sunset 

An  intenser  glow,  10 

And  enriched  the  cup  of  rapture, 

Filled  to  overflow. 

Hope  was  frail  and  Passion  fleeting — 

It  is  often  so 
Visions  born  of  golden  sunsets  15 

With  the  sunsets  go: 
To  have  loved  is  to  have  suffered 

Martyrdom  below. 

By  the  lake  beyond  the  meadow, 

Where  the  lilies  blow —  20 

Oh,  the  glory  there  that  perished, 
None  shall  ever  know — 

When  a  human  heart  was  broken, 
Many  years  ago ! 

ASHES  OF  GLORY.    Type  of  poem?    Its  measure? 
7.    "Trailing    sables":      meaning?      18.     "Victor 
tar":   explain.     20.  "Trafalgar":   historical   allu- 
132 


AUGUSTUS   JULIAN  REQUIER 

sion  ?  21-29.  Discuss  the  proper  names.  26.  "  Dis- 
gorge": criticise  the  use  of  the  word  here. 

WHO  WAS  IT?  Contrast  this  with  the  following, 
and  show  their  difference  in  mood  and  structure. 
Do  they  both  fall  in  the  same  class  of  lyric? 

ONLY  A  DREAM.  Is  there  a  suggestion  of  Poe  in 
this?  15,  16.  These  lines  are  worthy  of  being  re- 
membered. 


133 


Margaret  Junkin  Preston 

1835-1897 

The  father  of  Mrs.  Preston,  Rev.  Dr.  Junkin,  of 
Philadelphia,  was  chosen  president  of  Washington 
and  Lee  University,  at  Lexington,  Va.  There  the 
daughter  became  the  wife  of  Prof.  John  T.  L.  Pres- 
ton, of  the  Virginia  Military  Institute,  and  a  sister 
of  hers,  Miss  Eleanor  Junkin,  was  married  to  the 
great  Confederate  general,  T.  J.  Jackson. 

Prior  to  her  marriage  Mrs.  Preston  contributed  to 
Sartain's  Magazine,  and  throughout  a  long  life  her 
poems  appeared  from  time  to  time  in  some  of  our 
best  periodicals.  She  wrote  one  novel,  "  Silver- 
wood,"  and  several  volumes  of  verse,  the  most  noted 
of  which,  "  Beechenbrook,  a  Rhyme  of  the  War/9 
contains  the  familiar  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  Grave  " 
and  "Slain  in  Battle."  Her  final  collection  of 
verses  is  entitled  "  Colonial  Ballads,  Sonnets,  and 
other  Verse."  Her  poems  are  thoughtful,  strong, 
and  full  of  religious  fervor. 

A  GRAVE  IN  HOLLYWOOD  CEMETERY, 

RICHMOND 

J.  R.   T. 

I  read  the  marble-lettered  name, 

And  half  in  bitterness  I  said : 
"As  Dante  from  Ravenna  came, 

Our  poet  came  from  exile — dead." 
134 


MARGARET  JUNKIN   PRESTON 

And  yet,  had  it  been  asked  of  him  B 

Where  he  would  rather  lay  his  head, 

This  spot  he  would  have  chosen.    Dim 
The  city's  hum  drifts  o'er  his  grave, 
And  green  above  the  hollies  wave 

Their  jagged  leaves,  as  when  a  boy,  10 

On  blissful  summer  afternoons, 
He  came  to  sing  the  birds  his  runes, 

And  tell  the  river  of  his  joy. 

Who  dreams  that  in  his  wanderings  wide, 

By  stern  misfortunes  tossed  and  driven    15 
His  soul's  electric  strands  were  riven 
From  home  and  country?    Let  betide 
What  might,  what  would,  his  boast,  his  pride, 
Was  in  his  stricken  mother-land, 

That  could  but  bless  and  bid  him  go,  20 

Because  no  crust  was  in  her  hand 

To  stay  her  children's  need.    We  know 
The  mystic  cable  sank  too  deep 

For  surface  storm  or  stress  to  strain, 
Or  from  his  answering  heart  to  keep  25 

The  spark  from  flashing  back  again ! 

Think  of  the  thousand  mellow  rhymes, 

The  pure  idyllic  passion-flowers, 
Wherewith,  in  far  gone,  happier  times, 

He  garlanded  this  South  of  ours.  30 

Provengal-like,  he  wandered  long, 

And  sang  at  many  a  stranger's  board, 
Yet  'twas  Virginia's  name  that  poured 
The  tenderest  pathos  through  his  song. 
We  owe  the  Poet  praise  and  tears,  35 

Whose  ringing  ballad  sends  the  brave, 
Bold  Stuart  riding  down  the  years — 
What  have  we  given  him?    Just  a  grave! 
122 


A    STUDY   IN    SOUTHERN   POETRY 


STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  GRAVE 

A  simple,  sodded  mound  of  earth, 

With  not  a  line  above  it — 
With  only  daily  votive  flowers 

To  prove  that  any  love  it ; 
The  token  flag  that,  silently,  B 

Each  breeze's  visit  numbers, 
Alone  keeps  martial  ward  above 

The  hero's  dreamless  slumbers. 

No  name  ?  no  record  ?    Ask  the  world — 

The  world  has  heard  his  story —  10 

If  all  its  annals  can  unfold 

A  prouder  tale  of  glory? 
If  ever  merely  human  life 

Hath  taught  diviner  moral — 
If  ever  round  a  worthier  brow  w 

Was  twined  a  purer  laurel? 

Humanity's  responsive  heart 

Concedes  his  wond'rous  powers, 
And  pulses  with  a  tenderness 

Almost  akin  to  ours ;  20 

Nay,  not  to  ours — for  us  he  poured 

His  life — a  rich  oblation; 
And  on  adoring  souls  we  bear 

His  blood  of  consecration. 

A  twelvemonth  only  since  his  sword  * 

Went  flashing  through  the  battle; 

A  twelvemonth  only  since  his  ear 
Heard  war's  last  deadly  rattle. 
136 


MARGARET  JUNKIN   PRESTON 

And  yet  have  countless  pilgrim  feet 
The  pilgrim's  guerdon  paid  him ; 

And  weeping  women  come  to  see 
The  place  where  they  have  laid  him. 

Contending  armies  bring,  in  turn, 

Their  meed  of  praise  or  honor; 
And  Pallas  here  has  paused  to  bind  35 

The  cypress  wreath  upon  her. 
It  seems  a  holy  sepulchre 

Whose  sanctities  can  waken 
Alike  the  love  of  friend  or  foe — • 

Of  Christian  or  of  Pagan.  40 

They  come  to  own  his  high  emprise 

Who  fled  in  frantic  masses 
Before  the  glittering  bayonet 

That  triumphed  at  Manassas; 
Who  witnessed  Kernstown's  fearful  odds,      4B 

As  on  their  ranks  he  thundered, 
Defiant  as  the  storied  Greek 

Amid  his  brave  three  hundred. 

'They  well  recall  the  tiger  spring, 

The  wise  retreat,  the  rally ;  50 

The  tireless  march,  the  fierce  pursuit 

Through  many  a  mountain  valley. 
Cross  Keys  unlocks  new  paths  to  fame, 

And  Port  Republic's  story 
Wrests  from  his  ever-vanquished  foes  55 

Strange  tributes  to  his  glory! 

Cold  Harbor  rises  to  their  view, 
The  Cedar's  gloom  is  o'er  them, 

Antietam's  rough  and  rugged  heights 

Stretch  mockingly  before  them.  60 

137 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

The  lurid  flames  of  Fredericksburg 

Eight  grimly  they  remember, 
That  lit  the  frozen  night's  retreat 

That  wintry,  wild  December. 

The  largesse  of  their  praise  is  flung  65 

With  bounty  rare  and  regal; 
Is  it  because  the  vulture  fears 

No  longer  the  dead  eagle? 
Nay,  rather  far  accept  it  thus; 

A  homage  true  and  tender,  70 

As  soldier  unto  soldier's  worth — 

As  brave  to  brave  will  render ! 

But  who  shall  weigh  the  wordless  grief 

That  leaves  in  tears  its  traces, 
As  'round  their  leader  crowd  again  75 

Those  bronzed  and  veteran  faces? 
The  "  old  brigade  "  he  loved  so  well, — 

The  mountain  men  who  bound  him. 
With  bays  of  their  own  winning,  ere 

A  tardier  fame  had  crowned  him.  80 

The  legions  who  had  seen  his  glance 

Across  the  carnage  flashing, 
And  thrilled  to  catch  his  ringing  "  Charge !  " 

Above  the  volley  crashing; 
Who  oft  had  watched  the  lifted  hand  85 

The  inward  trust  betraying, 
And  felt  their  courage  grow  sublime 

While  they  beheld  him  praying. 

Good  knights,  and  true  as  ever  drew 

Their  swords  with  knightly  Roland,         90 

Or  died  at  Sobieski's  side 
For  love  of  martyred  Poland; 
138 


MARGARET   JUNKIN    PRESTON 

Or  knelt  with  Cromwell's  "  Ironsides," 

Or  sung  with  brave  Gustavus, 
Or  on  the  field  of  Austerlitz  95 

Breathed  out  their  dying  "  aves." 

Rare  fame !  rare  name !  if  chanted  praise, 

With  all  the  world  to  listen; 
If  pride  that  swells  a  nation's  soul ; 

If  foeman's  tears  that  glisten ;  10° 

If  pilgrim's  shrining  love ;  if  grief 

Which  naught  can  soothe  or  sever, — 
If  these  can  consecrate,  this  spot 

Is  sacred  ground  forever. 


BEFORE   DEATH 


How  much  would  I  care  for  it,  could  I  know, 

That  when  I  am  under  the  grass  or  snow, 

The  ravelled  garment  of  life's  brief  day 

Folded,  and  quietly  laid  away; 

The  spirit  let  loose  from  mortal  bars, 

And  somewhere  away  among  the  stars: 

How  much  do  you  think  it  would  matter  then 

What  praise  was  lavished  upon  me,  when, 

Whatever  might  be  its  stint  or  store, 

It  neither  could  help  nor  harm  me  more  ?      10 

II 

If  midst  of  my  toil  they  had  but  thought 
To  stretch  a  finger,  I  would  have  caught 
Gladly  such  aid,  to  bear  me  through 
Some  bitter  duty  I  had  to  do : 

139 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

And  when  it  was  done,  had  I  but  heard  15 

One  breath  of  applause,  one  cheering  word, 
One  cry  of  "  Courage !  "  amid  the  strife, 
So  weighted  for  me,  with  death  or  life, 
How  would  it  have  nerved  my  soul  to  strain 
Through  the  whirl  of  the  coming  surge  again ! 

Ill  20 

What  use  for  the  rope,  if  it  be  not  flung 
Till  the  swimmer's  grasp  to  the  rock  has  clung  ? 
What  help  in  a  comrade's  bugle-blast 
When  the  peril  of  Alpine  heights  is  past  ? 
What  need  that  the  spurring  paean  roll  25 

When  the  runner  is  safe  beyond  the  goal? 
What  worth  is  eulogy's  blandest  breath 
When  whispered  in  ears  that  are  hushed  in 

death? 

No !  no !  if  you  have  but  a  word  of  cheer, 
Speak  it,  while  I  am  alive  to  hear !  80 

AT  ST.  OSWALD'S 

Within  the  church  I  knelt,  where  many  a  year 
Wordsworth  had  worshipped,  while  his  musing  eye 
Wandered  o'er  mountain,  fell,  and  scaur,  and  sky, 

That  rimmed  the  silver  circle  of  Grasmere, 

Whose  crystal  held  an  under-world  as  clear  5 

As  that  which  girt  it  round ;  and  questioned  why 
The  place  was  sacred  for  his  lifted  sigh, 

More  than  the  humble  dalesman's  kneeling  near. 

Strange  spell  of  Genius ! — that  can  melt  the  soul 
To  reverence  tenderer  than  o'er  it  falls  10 

Beneath  the  marvellous  heavens  which  God  hath 
made, 

140 


MARGARET   JUNKJN    PRESTON 

And  sway  it  with  such  human-sweet  control 

That  holier  henceforth  seem  these  simple  walls, 
Because  within  them  once  a  poet  prayed ! 

FLOOD-TIDE 

To  every  artist,  howsoe'er  his  thought 
Unfolds  itself  before  the  eyes  of  men — 
Whether  through  sculptor's  chisel,  poet's  pen, 

Or    painter's    wondrous    brush, — there    comes,    full 
fraught 

With  instant  revelation,  lightning-wrought,  5 

A  moment  of  supremest  heart-swell,  when 
The  mind  leaps  to  the  tidal  crest,  and  then 

Sweeps  on  triumphant  to  the  harbor  sought. 

Wait,  eager  spirit,  till  the  topping  waves 

Shall  roll  their  gathering  strength  in  one,  and 
lift  10 

From  out  the  swamping  trough  thy  galleon  free ; 
Mount  with  the  whirl,  command  the  rush  that  raves 
A  maelstrom  round ;  then  proudly  shoreward  drift, 
Bich-freighted  as  an  Indian  argosy. 

A  GRAVE  IN  HOLLYWOOD.  This  is  a  tribute  to  the 
memory  of  John  R.  Thompson.  3.  Dante,  the  great 
Italian  poet,  was  driven  into  exile  by  his  political 
enemies  and  died  at  Eavenna.  31.  "  Provengal-like  " : 
like  one  of  the  wandering  lyric  poets  of  Provence, 
France.  36.  "Einging  ballad":  Thompson's  fine 
poem,  "  The  Death  of  Stuart." 

STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  GRAVE.     1,  2.  This  was 

true  when  written,  but  not  now;  an  appropriate 

monument  stands  at  his  grave,  and  memorials  have 

been  erected  to  him  in  various  places — notably  the 

141 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

bronze  statue  at  Kichmond,  in  1875,  paid  for  by 
English  admirers.  33.  In  June,  1864,  two  hostile 
armies  reverently  visited  Jackson's  grave.  35.  "  Pal- 
las " :'  explain.  48.  The  Spartans  at  ThermopylaB. 
Explain  other  proper  names. 

BEFORE  DEATH.  Scan  this.  Characterize  its  dic- 
tion. What  is  its  tone?  What  references  in  the 
third  division? 

The  two  sonnet^  reveal  no  little  deftness  in  this 
difficult  form  of  composition.  Both  obey  the  rigid 
rules  as  to  rhyme  and  treatment.  This  is  the  Petrar- 
chan, or  Italian,  scheme.  The  octave  must  rhyme 
abbaaba ;  and  the  sestet,  cdecde, — though  there  is 
great  license  in  the  latter  division,  even  in  the  son- 
nets of  Petrarch.  These  poems,  too,  change  the 
phase  of  the  thought  at  the  close  of  the  first  divi- 
sion— another  requisite  in  this  type  of  lyric. 


142 


Rosa  Vertner  Jeffrey 
1828-1894 

Mrs.  Jeffrey  was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  John  Y. 
Griffith,  a  writer  of  some  distinction.  She  was  a 
native  of  Mississippi,  was  educated  in  Lexington, 
Ky.,  and  was  married  at  seventeen  to  Mr.  Claude  M. 
Johnson.  After  his  death  she  became  the  wife  of 
Mr.  Alexander  Jeffrey,  of  Edinburgh,  Scotland. 

She  was  a  favorite  contributor  to  the  Louisville 
Journal,  under  the  pen  name,  "  Kosa."  Some  of  her 
volumes  of  verse  are:  "Poems,  by  Rosa,"  "Daisy 
Dare  and  Baby  Power,"  "  The  Crimson  Hand,  and 
Other  Poems."  Besides  these  she  wrote  several 
stories,  of  which  her  two  novels,  "Marsh"  and 
"Woodburn,"  stand  first. 

ANGEL  WATCHERS 

Angel  faces  watch  my  pillow,  angel  voices  haunt  my 
sleep, 

And  upon  the  winds  of  midnight  shining  pinions 
round  me  sweep ; 

Floating  downward  on  the  starlight  two  bright  in- 
fant forms  I  see, 

They  are  mine,  my  own  bright  darlings,  come  from 
Heaven  to  visit  me. 

Earthly  children  smile  upon  me,  but  those  little  ones 
above  5 

Were  the  first  to  stir  the  fountains  of  a  mother's 
deathless  love; 

143 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

And,  as  now  they  watch  my  slumber,  while  their  soft 

eyes  on  me  shine, 
God  forgive  a  mortal  yearning  still  to  call  His  angels 

mine. 

Earthly  children  fondly  call  me,  but  no  mortal  voice 

can  seem 
Sweet  as  those  that  whisper  "  Mother ! "  'mid  the 

glories  of  my  dream :  10 

Years  will  pass,  and  earthly  prattlers  cease  perchance 

to  lisp  my  name, 
But  my  angel  babies'  accents  shall  be  evermore  the 

same. 

And  the  bright  band  now  around  me  from  their  home 

perchance  will  rove, 
In  their  strength  no  more  depending  on  my  constant 

care  and  love 
But  my  first-born  still  shall  wander  from  the  sky,  in 

dreams  to  rest  15 

Their  soft  cheeks  and  shining  tresses  on  an  earthly 

mother's  breast. 

Time  may  steal  away  the  freshness,  or  some  whelm- 
ing grief  destroy 

All  the  hopes  that  erst  had  blossomed  in  my  summer- 
time of  joy 

Earthly  children  may  forsake  me,  earthly  friends  per- 
haps betray, 

Every  tie  that  now  unites  me  to  this  life  may  pass 
away,  20 

But,  unchanged,  those  angel  watchers,  from  their 

blest  immortal  home, 
Pure  and  fair,  to  cheer  the  sadness  of  my  darkened 

dreams  shall  come, 
144 


ROSA    VERTNER    JEFFREY 

And  I  cannot  feel  forsaken,   for,  though  'reft  of 

earthly  lore, 
Angel  children  call  me  "  Mother !  "  and  my  soul  will 

look  above. 

A  lyric  of  grief,  the  theme  of  which  is  a  mother's 
love  for  her  lost  children.  It  is  the  expression  of 
tender  feeling  and  keen  pathos. 


145 


Henry  fTimrod 

1829-1867 

This  young  South  Carolinian  must  be  rated  as 
among  the  first  poets  of  the  South.  What  he  has 
left  us  is  marked  by  a  tender  sentiment,  a  fine  im- 
agination, .and  a  delicate  sweetness. 

He  prepared  himself  for  the  law,  but  never  pur- 
sued it.  His  first  work  was  that  of  teacher — a  work 
he  followed  ten  years,  writing  poems  the  while,  a 
number  being  published  in  the  Literary  Messenger. 

He  moved  from  his  native  city,  Charleston,  to 
Columbia,  where  he  edited  the  South  Carolinian. 
Soon  afterward  his  first  collection  appeared  in  Boston, 
1860.  It  met  with  a  generous  reception  North  and 
South.  His  brilliant  war  lyrics  added  to  his  reputa- 
tion, and  for  a  time  life  opened  a  beautiful  vista  for 
him,  but  ill  health  and  the  tempest  of  war  ruined 
all  his  prospects.  Eeduced  almost  to  actual  starva- 
tion, he  bitterly  wrote  in  1865,  "I  would  consign 
every  line  I  have  written  to  eternal  oblivion  for  one 
hundred  dollars  in  hand." 

His  works  were  republished  in  New  York  in  1873, 
with  a  sympathetic  introduction  by  his  brother-poet 
and  life-long  friend,  Paul  Hayne.  A  revised  edition 
appeared  in  1879. 

THE    COTTON  BOLL 

While  I  recline 

At  ease  beneath 

This  immemorial  pine, 

Small  sphere! 

(By  dusky  fingers  brought  this  morning  here  5 

146 


HENRY  TIMROD 


And  shown  with  boastful  smiles), 

I  turn  thy  cloven  sheath, 

Through  which  the  soft  white  fibres  peer, 

That,  with  their  gossamer  bands, 

Unite,  like  love,  the  sea-divided  lands,  10 

And  slowly,  thread  by  thread, 

Draw  forth  the  folded  strands,  . 

Than  which  the  trembling  line, 

By  whose  frail  help  yon  startled  spider  fled 

Down  the  tall  spear-grass  from  his  swinging-bed,      15 

Is  scarce  more  fine ; 

And  as  the  tangled  skein 

Unravels  in  my  hands, 

Betwixt  me  and  the  noonday  light, 

A  veil  seems  lifted,  and  for  miles  and  miles  20 

The  landscape  broadens  on  my  sight, 

As,  in  the  little  boll,  there  lurked  a  spell 

Like  that  which,  in  the  ocean  shell, 

With  mystic  sound, 

Breaks  down  the  narrow  walls  that  hem  us  round,  25 

And  turns  some  city  lane 

Into  the  restless  main, 

With  all  his  capes  and  isles ! 

Yonder  bird, 

Which  floats,  as  if  at  rest,  30 

In  those  blue  tracts  above  the  thunder,  where 

No  vapors  cloud  the  stainless  air, 

And  never  a  sound  is  heard, 

Unless  at  such  rare  time 

When,  from  the  City  of  the  Blest,  « 

Rings  down  some  golden  chime, 

Sees  not  from  his  high  place 

So  vast  a  cirque  of  summer  space 

147 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

As  widens  round  me  in  one  mighty  field, 
Which,  rimmed  by  seas  and  sands,  *a 

Doth  hail  its  earliest  daylight  in  the  beams 
Of  gray  Atlantic  dawns; 
And,  broad  as  realms  made  up  of  many  lands, 
Is  lost  afar 

Behind  the  crimson  hills  and  purple  lawns  4e 

Of  sunset,  among  plains  which  roll  their  streams 
Against  the  Evening  Star ! 
Andlo! 

To  the  remotest  point  of  sight, 
Although  I  gaze  upon  no  waste  of  snow,  w 

The  endless  field  is  white ; 
And  the  whole  landscape  glows, 
For  many  a  shining  league  away, 
With  such  accumulated  light 

As  Polar  lands  would  flash  beneath  a  tropic  day !      55 
Nor  lack  there  (for  the  vision  grows, 
And  the  small  charm  within  my  hands — 
More  potent  even  than  the  fabled  one, 
Which  oped  whatever  golden  mystery 
Lay  hid  in  fairy  wood  or  magic  vale,  60 

The  curious  ointment  of  the  Arabian  tale — 
Beyond  all  mortal  sense 
Doth  stretch  my  sight's  horizon,  and  I  see, 
Beneath  its  simple  influence, 

As  if  with  Uriel's  crown,  ** 

I  stood  in  some  great  temple  of  the  Sun, 
And  looked,  as  Uriel,  down!) 
N*or  lack  there  pastures  rich  and  fields  all  green 
With  all  the  common  gifts  of  God, 
For  temperate  airs  and  torrid  sheen  70 

Weave  Edens  of  the  sod; 

Through  lands  which  look  one  sea  of  billowy  gold 
Broad  rivers  wind  their  devious  ways; 
148 


HENRY  TIMROD 


A  hundred  isles  in  their  emfiraces  fold 
A  hundred  luminous  bays;  75 

And  through  yon  purple  haze 

Vast   mountains    lift    their   plumed    peaks    cloud- 
crowned; 

And,  save  where  up  their  sides  the  ploughman  creeps, 
An  unhewn  forest  girds  them  grandly  round, 
In  whose  dark  shades  a  future  navy  sleeps !  80 

Ye  Stars,  which,  though  unseen,  yet  with  me  gaze 
Upon  this  loveliest  fragment  of  the  earth  I 
Thou  Sun,  that  kindlest  all  thy  gentlest  rays 
Above  it,  as  to  light  a  favorite  hearth ! 
Ye  Clouds,  that  in  your  temples  in  the  West  85 

See  nothing  brighter  than  its  humblest  flowers ! 
And  you,  ye  Winds,  that  on  the  ocean's  breast 
Are  kissed  to  coolness  ere  ye  reach  its  bowers ! 
Bear  witness  with  me  in  my  song  of  praise, 
And  tell  the  world  that,  since  the  world  began,      *° 
No  fairer  land  hath  fired  a  poet's  lays, 
Or  given  a  home  to  man  1 

But  these  are  charms  already  widely  blown  I 
His  be  the  meed  whose  pencil's  trace 
Hath  touched  our  very  swamps  with  grace,  95 

And  round  whose  tuneful  way 
All  Southern  laurels  bloom; 
The  Poet  of  "  The  Woodlands,"  unto  whom 
Alike  are  known 

The  flute's  low  breathing  and  the  trumpet's  tone,  10° 
And  the  soft  west  wind's  sighs ; 
But  who  shall  utter  all  the  debt, 
0  land  wherein  all  powers  are  met 
That  bind  a  people's  heart, 

The  world  doth  owe  thee  at  this  day,  106 

And  which  it  never  can  repay, 
149 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Yet  scarcely  deigns  to  own! 
Where  sleeps  the  poet  who  shall  fitly  sing 
The  source  wherefrom  doth  spring 
That  mighty  commerce  which,  confined  no 

To  the  mean  channels  of  no  selfish  mart, 
Goes  out  to  every  shore 

Of  this  broad  earth,  and  throngs  the  sea  with  ships 
That  bear  no  thunders;  hushes  hungry  lips  115 

In  alien  lands; 

Joins  with  a  delicate  web  remotest  strands; 
And  gladdening  rich  and  poor, 
Doth  gild  Parisian  domes, 
Or  feed  the  cottage-smoke  of  English  homes, 
And  only  bounds  its  blessings  by  mankind!          12° 
In  offices  like  these,  thy  mission  lies, 
My  Country!  and  it  shall  not  end 
As  long  as  rain  shall  fall  and  Heaven  bend 
In  blue  above  thee;  though  thy  foes  be  hard 
And  cruel  as  their  weapons,  it  shall  guard  125 

Thy  hearth-stones  as  a  bulwark;  make  thee  great 
In  white  and  bloodless  state; 
And  haply,  as  the  years  increase-^ 
Still  working  through  its  humbler  reach 
With  that  large  wisdom  which  the  ages  teach        13° 
Revive  the  half-dead  dream  of  universal  peace ! 
As  men  who  labor  in  that  mine 
Of  Cornwall,  hollowed  out  beneath  the  bed 
Of  ocean,  when  a  storm  rolls  overhead, 
Hear  the  dull  booming  of  the  world  of  brine          135 
Above  them,  and  a  mighty  muffled  roar 
Of  winds  and  waters,  yet  toil  calmly  on, 
And  split  the  rock,  and  pile  the  massive  ore, 
Or  carve  a  niche,  or  shape  the  arched  roof; 
So  I,  as  calmly,  weave  my  woof  14° 

Of  song,  chanting  the  days  to  come, 
150 


HENRY  TIMROD 


Unsilenced,  though  the  quiet  summer  air 
Stirs  with  the  bruit  of  battles,  and  each  dawn 
Wakes  from  its  starry  silence  to  the  hum 
Of  many  gathering  armies.     Still,  145 

In  that  we  sometimes  hear, 
Upon  the  Northern  winds,  the  voice  of  woe 
Not  wholly  drowned  in  triumph,  though  I  know 
The  end  must  crown  us,  and  a  few  brief  years 
Dry  all  our  tears,  15° 

I  may  not  sing  too  gladly.     To  thy  will 
Resigned,  0  Lord!  we  cannot  all  forget 
That  there  is  much  even  Victory  must  regret. 
And,  therefore,  not  too  long 

From  the  great  burthen  of  our  country's  wrong    155 
Delay  our  just  release ! 
And,  if  it  may  be,  save 
These  sacred  fields  of  peace 
From  stain  of  patriot  or  of  hostile  blood ! 
Oh,  help  us,  Lord !  to  roll  the  crimson  flood  16° 

Back  on  its  course,  and  while  our  banners  wing 
Northward,  strike  with  us !  till  the  Goth  shall  cling 
To  his  own  blasted  altar-stones,  and  crave 
Mercy;  and  we  shall  grant  it,  and  dictate 
The  lenient  future  of  his  fate  165 

There,  where  some  rotting  ships  and  crumbling  quays 
Shall  one  day  mark  the  Port  which  ruled  the  Western 
seas. 

HYMN; 

Sung  at  the  consecration  of  Magnolia  Cemetery, 
Charleston,  8.  C. 

Whose  was  the  hand  that  painted  thee,  0  Death! 

In  the  false  aspect  of  a  ruthless  foe, 
Despair  and  sorrow  waiting  on  thy  breath, — 

0  gentle  Power !  who  could  have  wronged  thee  so  ? 
151 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Thou   rather   should'st   be    crowned   with    fadeless 
flowers,  5 

Of  lasting  fragrance  and  celestial  hue ; 
Or  be  thy  couch  amid  funereal  bowers, 

But  let  the  stars  and  sunlight  sparkle  through. 

So,  with  these  thoughts  before  us,  we  have  fixed 
And  beautified,  0  Death !  thy  mansion  here,        10 

Where   gloom   and   gladness — grave   and   garden — > 

mixed, 
Make  it  a  place  to  love,  and  not  to  fear. 

Heaven !  shed  thy  most  propitious  dews  around ! 

Ye  holy  stars !  look  down  with  tender  eyes, 
And  gild  and  guard  and  consecrate  the  ground        1B 

Where  we  may  rest,  and  whence  we  pray  to  rise. 


ODE 
I 

Sleep  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves, 
Sleep,  martyrs  of  a  fallen  cause; 

Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 
The  pilgrim  here  to  pause. 


n 

In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth 

The  blossom  of  your  fame  is  blown, 

And  somewhere,  waiting  for  its  birth, 
The  shaft  is  in  the  stone ! 
152 


HENRY  TIMROD 


III 

Meanwhile,  behalf  the  tardy  years 
Which  keep  in  trust  your  storied  tombs,    10 

Behold !  your  sisters  bring  their  tears 
And  these  memorial  blooms. 

IV 

Small  tributes !  but  your  shades  will  smile 
More  proudly  on  these  wreaths  to-day, 

Than  when  some  cannon-moulded  pile         15 
Shall  overlook  this  bay. 


Stoop,  angels,  hither  from  the  skies! 

There  is  no  holier  spot  of  ground 
Than  where  defeated  valor  lies, 

By  mourning  beauty  crowned! 

HAEK  TO  THE  SHOUTING  WIND 

Hark  to  the  shouting  Wind! 

Hark  to  the  flying  Rain ! 
And  I  care  not  though  I  never  see 

A  bright  blue  sky  again. 

There  are  thoughts  in  my  breast  to-day        5 
That  are  not  for  human  speech; 

But  I  hear  them  in  the  driving  storm, 
And  the  roar  upon  the  beach. 

And  oh,  to  be  with  that  ship 

That  I  watch  through  the  blinding  brine ! 10 
0  Wind !  for  thy  sweep  of  land  and  sea ! 

0  Sea !  for  a  voice  like  thine ! 
153 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Shout  on,  thou  pitiless  Wind, 

To  the  frightened  and  flying  Rain! 

I  care  not  though  I  never  see  15 

A  calm  blue  sky  again. 


SONNET 

I  scarcely  grieve,  0  Nature !  at  the  lot 

That  pent  my  life  within  a  city's  hounds, 

And  shut  me  from  thy  sweetest  sights  and  sounds. 

Perhaps  I  had  not  learned,  if  some  lone  cot 

Had  nursed  a  dreamy  childhood,  what  the  mart 

Taught  me  amid  its  turmoil ;  so  my  youth 

Had  missed  full  many  a  stern  hut  wholesome  truth. 

Here,  too,  0  Nature !  in  this  haunt  of  Art, 

Thy  power  is  on  me,  and  I  own  thy  thrall. 

There  is  no  unimpressive  spot  on  earth !  10 

The  beauty  of  the  stars  is  over  all, 

And  Day  and  Darkness  visit  every  hearth. 

Clouds  do  not  scorn  us :  yonder  factory's  smoke 

Looked  like  a  golden  mist  when  morning  broke. 

SONNET 

Life  ever  seems  as  from  its  present  site 
It  aimed  to  lure  us.     Mountains  of  the  past 
It  melts,  with  all  their  crags  and  caverns  vast, 
Into  a  purple  cloud !     Across  the  night 
Which  hides  what  is  to  be,  it  shoots  a  light          6 
All  rosy  with  the  yet  unrisen  dawn. 
Not  the  near  daisies,  but  yon  distant  height 
Attracts  us,  lying  on  this  emerald  lawn. 
And  always,  be  the  landscape  what  it  may — • 
Blue,  misty  hill,  or  sweep  of  glimmering  plain — 10 
154 


HENRY  TIMROD 


It  is  the  eye's  endeavor  still  to  gain 
The  fine,  faint  limit  of  the  bounding  day. 
God,  haply,  in  this  mystic  mode,  would  fain 
Hint  of  a  happier  home,  far,  far  away ! 

THE  COTTON  BOLL.  "Uriel":  one  of  the  seven 
Archangels  nearest  the  throne  of  God.  The  name 
means  God's  light.  95.  Allusion  to  Simms'  "The 
Edge  of  the  Swamp.'"'  98.  Simms  spent  half  his 
time  on  his  plantation,  "Woodlands,"  near  Midway, 
S.  C.  100,  101.  "Mute,  trumpet,  west  wind": 
symbolize  what  types  of  Simms'  poetry?  143. 
"  Bruit " :  report.  153.  This  is  a  rememberable  line. 
162.  "  Goth " :  the  Federal  invaders  of  the  South. 
166.  "Quays":  wharfs.  167.  What  port  is  the 
doom  pronounced  against? 

" The  Cotton  Boll"  is  held  to  be  the  author's  best 
work.  It  is  imaginative,  patriotic,  melodious,  but 
discursive.  The  poet's  fancy  led  him  far  away  from 
his  theme. 

HYMN.  To  my  mind  this  grave,  exalted  poem  is 
superior  to  the  foregoing.  There  is  not  an  aimless, 
irrelevant  thought  in  it. 

ODE.  Whittier  said  of  this  song,  sung  at  the  deco- 
ration of  graves  in  Magnolia  Cemetery,  Charleston, 
"  In  its  simple  grandeur  it  is  the  noblest  poem  ever 
written  by  a  Southern  poet."  3.  A  monument  has 
since  been  erected.  15.  "Cannon-moulded  pile": 
explain. 

HARK  TO  THE  SHOUTING  WIND.  What  mood  in- 
spired this?  Type  of  lyric?  Read  Tennyson's 
"  Break,  Break,  Break,"  and  trace  its  influence  here. 

SONNETS.     These  are  introduced  to  illustrate  the 
poet's  range.    They  are  good,  but  not  notably  so. 
Hayne  surpassed  him  far  in  this  form. 
155 


James  Barren  Hope 

1829-1887 

Mr.  Hope  was  born  in  Norfolk,  Va.,  and  was  edu- 
cated at  William  and  Mary.  He  took  up  the  law, 
and  became  Commonwealth  Attorney ;  but  he  inclined 
toward  letters,  and  received  his  first  recognition  by 
a  series  of  poems  contributed  under  the  pen-name, 
"  The  late  Henry  Ellen,  Esq.,"  to  a  Baltimore  pub- 
lication. 

He  served  through  the  Civil  War,  first  as  quarter- 
master, then  as  captain;  settling  afterwards  in  his 
native  town,  where  he  became  superintendent  of 
schools,  and  afterwards  editor  of  the  Landmark. 

He  was  invited  by  the  United  State  Senate  to  read 
a  poem  on  October  19,  1881,  the  one  hundredth  anni- 
versary of  the  surrender  of  Cornwallis  at  Yorktown. 
A  metrical  address,  "Arms  and  the  Man/'  was  the 
result,  and  this,  with  other  poems,  was  published  in 
Norfolk,  1882.  He  published  two  other  volumes  of 
poems  and  a  novel.  His  daughter,  Mrs.  J.  B.  Hope- 
Marr,  has  collected  his  poems  into  one  volume,  pub- 
lished in  Eichmond. 

THREE  SUMMEE  STUDIES 
I 

The  cock  hath  crow'd.    I  hear  the  doors  unbarr'd ; 

Down  to  the  moss-grown  porch  my  way  I  take, 
And  hear,  beside  the  well  within  the  yard, 

Full  many  an  ancient,  quacking,  splashing  drake, 
And  gabbling  goose,  and  noisy  brood-hen — all          5 
Responding  to  yon  strutting  gobbler's  call. 
156 


JAMES    BARRON   HOPE 


The  dew  is  thick  upon  the  velvet  grass — 
The  porch-rails  hold  it  in  translucent  drops, 

And  as  the  cattle  from  th'  enclosure  pass, 
Each  one,  alternate,  slowly  halts  and  crops  10 

The  tall,  green  spears,  with  all  their  dewy  load, 

Which  grow  beside  the  well-known  pasture-road. 

A  lustrous  polish  is  on  all  the  leaves — 
The  birds  flit  in  and  out  with  varied  notes— 

The  noisy  swallows  twitter  'neath  the  eaves —          1B 
A  partridge-whistle  thro'  the  garden  floats, 

While  yonder  gaudy  peacock  harshly  cries, 

As  red  and  gold  flush  all  the  eastern  skies. 

Up  conies  the  sun :  thro'  the  dense  leaves  a  spot 
Of  splendid  light  drinks  up  the  dew ;  the  breeze    20 

Which  late  made  leafy  music  dies ;  the  day  grows  hot, 
And  slumbrous  sounds  come  from  marauding  bees : 

The  burnish'd  river  like  a  sword-blade  shines, 

Save  where  'tis  shadowed  by  the  solemn  pines. 

II 

Over  the  farm  is  brooding  silence  now —  25 

No  reaper's  song — no  raven's  clangor  harsh — 

"No  bleat  of  sheep — no  distant  low  of  cow — 
No  croak  of  frogs  within  the  spreading  marsh — 

No  bragging  cock  from  litter'd  farm-yard  crows, 

The  scene  is  steep'd  in  silence  and  repose.  30 

A  trembling  haze  hangs  over  all  the  fields — 
The  panting  cattle  in  the  river  stand, 

Seeking  the  coolness  which  its  wave  scarce  yields. 
It  seems  a  Sabbath  thro'  the  drowsy  land : 

So  hush'd  is  all  beneath  the  Summer's  spell,  86 

I  pause  and  listen  for  some  faint  church  bell. 

157 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

The  leaves  are  motionless — the  song-bird's  mute — 
The  very  air  seems  somnolent  and  sick: 

The  spreading  branches  with  o'er-ripened  fruit 
Show  in  the  sunshine  all  their  clusters  thick, 

While  now  and  then  a  mellow  apple  falls 

With  a  dull  sound  within  the  orchard's  walls. 

The  sky  has  but  one  solitary  cloud, 

Like  a  dark  island  in  a  sea  of  light; 
The  parching  furrows  'twixt  the  corn-rows  plough'd  45 

Seem  fairly  dancing  in  my  dazzled  sight, 
While  over  yonder  road  a  dusty  haze 
Grows  reddish  purple  in  the  sultry  blaze. 

Ill 

That  solitary  cloud  grows  dark  and  wide, 

While  distant  thunder  rumbles  in  the  air,  50 

A  fitful  ripple  breaks  the  river's  tide — 
The  lazy  cattle  are  no  longer  there, 

But  homeward  come  in  long  procession  slow, 

With  many  a  bleat  and  many  a  plaintive  low. 

Darker  and  wider-spreading  o'er  the  west  55 

Advancing  clouds,  each  in  fantastic  form, 

And  mirror'd  turrets  on  the  river's  breast 
Tell  in  advance  the  coming  of  a  storm — 

Closer  and  brighter  glares  the  lightning's  flash 

And  louder,  nearer,  sounds  the  thunder's  crash.        60 

The  air  of  evening  is  intensely  hot, 

The  breeze  feels  heated  as  it  fans  my  brows — 
Now  sullen  rain-drops  patter  down  like  shot — 

Strike  in  the  grass,  or  rattle  'mid  the  boughs. 
A  sultry  lull :  and  then  a  gust  again,  65 

And  now  I  see  the  thick-advancing  rain. 
158 


JAMES    BARRON   HOPE 


It  fairly  hisses  as  it  comes  along, 

And  where  it  strikes  bounds  up  again  in  spray 
As  if  'twere  dancing  to  the  fitful  song 

Made  by  the  trees,  which  twist  themselves  and 
sway  70 

In  contest  with  the  wind  which  rises  fast, 
Until  the  breeze  becomes  a  furious  blast. 

And  now,  the  sudden,  fitful  storm  has  fled, 
The  clouds  lie  pil'd  up  in  the  splendid  west, 

In  massive  shadow  tipp'd  with  purplish  red,  75 

Crimson  or  gold.    The  scene  is  one  of  rest; 

And  on  the  bosom  of  yon  still  lagoon 

I  see  the  crescent  of  the  pallid  moon. 

OUK  ANGLO-SAXON   TONGUE 

Good  is  the  Saxon  speech!  clear,  short,  and  strong, 
Its  clean-cut  words,  fit  both  for  prayer  and  song; 
Good  is  this  tongue  for  all  the  needs  of  life; 
Good  for  sweet  words  with  friend,  or  child,  or  wife. 
Seax — short  sword — and  like  a  sword  its  sway 

Hews  out  a  path  'mid  all  the  forms  of  speech, 
.    For  in  itself  it  hath  the  power  to  teach 
Itself,  while  many  tongues  slow  fade  away. 

'Tis  good  for  laws;  for  vows  of  youth  and  maid; 
Good  for  the  preacher;  or  shrewd  folk  in  trade; 
Good  for  sea-calls  when  loud  the  rush  of  spray; 
Good  for  war-cries  where  men  meet  hilt  to  hilt, 
And  man's  best  blood  like  new-trod  wine  is  spilt, — 
Good  for  all  times,  and  good  for  what  thou  wilt ! 

THREE  SUMMER  STUDIES.    This  is  a  descriptive 
poem ;  it  deals  with  objects  instead  of  events.    Point 
159 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

out  extracts  especially  vivid.  What  is  the  setting? 
Are  the  descriptions  true?  3-5.  Means  of  descrip- 
tion here?  50.  What  means  here?  63.  Is  the  figure 
vivid?  65.  The  movement  of  the  line  serves  forci- 
bly in  the  sketching ;  how  ?  Extend  the  study  on  this 
as  indicated. 

OUR  ANGLO-SAXON  TONGUE.  Wherein  lies  the 
chief  merit  of  this  poem?  What  form  does  it  as- 
sume? 


160 


Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 

1830-1886 

"The  Laureate  of  the  South,"  as  Hayne  was 
styled,  wore  his  wreath  becomingly.  He  was  a  poet 
of  fine  culture  and  true  imagination.  He  was  an  in- 
tense lover  of  Nature  and  entered  sympathetically 
into  her  moods.  In  a  less  degree,  she  was  to  him,  as 
to  Wordsworth,  an  embodied  being. 

Hayne  was  a  native  of  Charleston,  S.  C.,  the  son 
of  a  naval  officer  and  a  nephew  of  Governor  Hayne. 
Owing  to  the  death  of  his  father,  he  was  left  when  an 
infant  to  the  care  of  his  mother,  his  distinguished 
uncle  taking  the  place  of  a  father  to  him.  The  child 
had  every  advantage  of  the  time  and  place,  and 
when  a  young  man  was  graduated  with  honor  at  the 
College  of  South  Carolina.  He  chose  law  as  a  pro- 
fession, practiced  for  a  while,  but  gave  it  up  for  liter- 
ature. At  twenty-three  he  became  first  editor  of  Rus- 
sell's Magazine,  and  later  of  the  Charleston  Literary 
Gazette.  During  the  bombardment  of  his  native  city 
his  home  was  burned,  together  with  all  his  ancestral 
belongings.  Thus  impoverished,  he  moved  to  Au- 
gusta, Ga.,  and  soon  afterwards  out  to  a  little  farm, 
"  Copse  Hill,"  where,  with  his  wife  and  son,  he  spent 
the  remaining  years  of  his  life.  Through  declining 
health  he  labored  untiringly  on,  singing  his  bravest 
and  best  song  "  in  the  unveiled  face  of  Death." 

He  addressed  himself  earnestly  to  poetry  through- 
out his  life,  and  attained  a  high  degree  of  perfection 
161 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

in  technique.  His  poems  are  almost  wholly  lyrics, 
the  sonnet,  however,  receiving  affectionate  attention. 
His  poems  are  musical  always;  and,  varying  with 
the  mood,  mournful,  passionate,  earnest,  delicate,  ten- 
der, hopeful,  religious.  While  his  best  work  is  the 
lyric,  some  of  his  narrative  poems  are  of  extraordi- 
nary power.  It  is  doubtful  whether  any  other  Ameri- 
can poet  has  produced  anything  to  surpass  his 
"Daphles."  His  life  gave  an  impulse  to  literature 
in  the  South — an  impulse  which  is  increasingly  felt 
to-day. 

He  is  the  author  of  several  books  of  poems,  among 
which  are  "Poems;  Sonnets  and  Other  Poems," 
"Legends  and  Lyrics,"  "The  Mountain  of  the  Lov- 
ers, and  Other  Poems,"  etc.  A  complete  illus- 
trated edition  of  his  verse-writings  appeared  in  Bos- 
ton, 1882.  Besides  these,  he  wrote  a  "  Life  of  Kobert 
Y.  Hayne"  and  a  "Life  of  Hugh  S.  Legare";  and 
also  edited,  with  a  memoir,  the  poems  of  Henry 
Timrod. 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD 

At  Night 

A  golden  pallor  of  voluptuous  light 

Filled  the  warm  southern  night: 

The  moon,  clear  orbed,  above  the  sylvan  scene 

Moved  like  a  stately  queen, 

So  rife  with  conscious  beauty  all  the  while     6 

What  could  she  do  but  smile 

At  her  own  perfect  loveliness  below, 

Glassed  in  the  tranquil  flow 

Of  crystal  fountains  and  unruffled  streams? 

Half  lost  in  waking  dreams,  10 

162 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 


As  down  the  loneliest  forest  dell  I  strayed, 

Lo!  from  a  neighboring  glade, 

Flashed  through  the  drifts   of  moonshine, 

swiftly  came 
A  fairy  shape  of  flame. 

It  rose  in  dazzling  spirals  overhead,  1B 

Whence  to  wild  sweetness  wed, 

Poured  marvellous  melodies,  silvery  trill  on 

trill; 

The  very  leaves  grew  still 
On  the  charmed  trees  to  hearken;  while  for 

me, 

Heart-thrilled  to  ecstasy,  20 

I  followed — followed  the  bright  shape  that 

flew, 

Still  circling  up  the  blue, 
Till  as  a  fountain  that  has  reached  its  height, 
Falls  back  in  sprays  of  light 
Slowly  dissolved,  so  that  enrapturing  lay,       25 
Divinely  melts  away 

Through  tremulous  spaces  to  a  music-mist, 
Soon  by  the  fitful  breeze 

How  gently  kissed 
Into  remote  and  tender  silences.  80 


THE  PINE'S  MYSTERY 
I 

Listen !  the  sombre  foliage  of  the  Pine, 
A  swart  Gitana  of  the  woodland  trees, 

Is  answering  what  we  may  but  half  divine, 
To  those  soft  whispers  of  the  twilight  breeze ! 
163 


A   STUDY  IN    SOUTHERN   POETRY 

II 

Passion  and  mystery  murmur  through  the  leaves,    6 
Passion  and  mystery,  touched  by  deathless  pain. 

Whose  monotone  of  long,  low  anguish  grieves 
For  something  lost  that  shall  not  live  again ! 

MY    STUDY 

This  is  my  world !  within  these  narrow  walls, 

I  own  a  princely  service ;  the  hot  care 

And  tumult  of  our  frenzied  life  are  here 

But  as  a  ghost,  and  echo ;  what  befalls 

In  the  far  mart  to  me  is  less  than  naught;  5 

I  walk  the  fields  of  quiet  Arcadies, 

And  wander  by  the  brink  of  hoary  seas, 

Calmed  to  the  tendance  of  untroubled  thought: 

Or  if  a  livelier  humor  should  enhance  9 

The  slow-timed  pulse,  'tis  not  for  present  strife, 
The  sordid  zeal  with  which  our  age  is  rife, 
Its  mammon  conflicts  crowned  by  fraud  or 

chance, 

But  gleamings  of  the  lost,  heroic  life, 
Flashed  through  the  gorgeous  vistas  of  romance. 


CLOUD   FANTASIES 

Wild,  rapid,  dark,  like  dreams  of  threatening  doom, 
Low  cloud-racks  scud  before  the  level  wind; 
Beneath  them,  the  bare  moorlands,  blank  and  blind, 
Stretch,  mournful,  through  pale  lengths  of  glimmer- 
ing gloom; 

164 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 


Afar,  grand  mimic  of  the  sea-waves'  boom,  * 

Hollow,  yet  sweet  as  if  a  Titan  pined 
O'er  deathless  woes,  yon  mighty  wood,  consigned 
To  autumn's  blight,  bemoans  its  perished  bloom; 
The  dim  air  creeps  with  a  vague  shuddering  thrill 
Down    from    those    monstrous    mists    the  sea-gale 

brings  10 

Half-formless,  inland,  poisoning  earth  and  sky; 
Most  from  yon  black  cloud,  shaped  like  vampire 

wings 

Or  a  lost  angel's  visage,  deathly-still, 
Uplifted  toward  some  dread  eternity. 


FRESHNESS  OF  POETIC  PERCEPTION 

Day  follows  day;  years  perish;  still  mine  eyes 
Are  opened  on  the  self -same  round  of  space; 
Yon  fadeless  forests  in  their  Titan  grace, 
And  the  large  splendors  of  those  opulent  skies. 
I  watch,  unwearied,  the  miraculous  dyes  5 

Of  dawn  or  sunset;  the  soft  boughs  which  lace 
Round  some  coy  dryad  in  a  lonely  place, 
Thrilled  with  low  whispering  and  strange  sylvan 

sighs : 

Weary?    The  poet's  mind  is  fresh  as  dew, 
And  oft  refilled  as  fountains  of  the  light.  10 

His  clear  child's  soul  finds  something  sweet  and  new 
Even  in  a  weed's  heart,  the  carved  leaves  of  corn, 
The  spear-like  grass,  the  silvery  rim  of  morn, 
A  cloud  rose-edged,  and  fleeting  stars  at  night ! 


165 


A    STUDY   IN    SOUTHERN   POETRY 


A    COMPARISON 

I  think,  ofttimes,  that  lives  of  men  may  be 
Likened  to  wandering  winds  that  come  and  go, 
Not  knowing  whence  they  rise,  whither  they  blow 
O'er  the  vast  globe,  voiceful  of  grief  or  glee. 
Some  lives  are  buoyant  zephyrs  sporting  free  5 

In  tropic  sunshine ;  some,  long  winds  of  woe 
That  shun  the  day,  wailing  with  murmurs  low, 
Through  haunted  twilights,  by  the  unresting  sea; 
Others  are  ruthless,  stormful,  drunk  with  might, 
Born  with  deep  passion  or  malign  desire:  10 

They  rave  'mid  thunder-peals  and  clouds  of  fire. 
Wild,  reckless  all,  save  that  some  power  unknown 
Guides  each  blind  force  till  life  be  overblown, 
Lost  in  vague  hollows  of  the  fathomless  night. 


THE  WILL  AND  THE  WING 

To  have  the  will  to  soar,  but  not  the  wings, 
Eyes  fixed  forever  on  a  starry  height, 

Whence  stately  shapes  of  grand  imaginings 
Flash  down  the  splendors  of  imperial  light; 

And  yet  to  lack  the  charm  that  makes  them  ours,      5 
The  obedient  vassals  of  that  conquering  spell, 

Whose  omnipresent  and  ethereal  powers 
Encircle  Heaven,  nor  fear  to  enter  Hell; 

This  is  the  doom  of  Tantalus — the  thirst 

For  beauty's  balmy  fount  to  quench  the  fires        10 

Of  the  wild  passion  that  our  souls  have  nurst 
In  hopeless  promptings — unfulfilled  desires. 
166 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 


Yet  would  I  rather  in  the  outward  state 
Of  Song's  immortal  temple  lay  me  down, 

A  beggar  basking  by  that  radiant  gate,  15 

Than  bend  beneath  the  haughtiest  empire's  crown ! 

For  sometimes,  through  the  bars,  my  ravished  eyes 
Have  caught  brief  glimpses  of  a  life  divine, 

And  seen  a  far,  mysterious  rapture  rise 
Beyond  the  veil  that  guards  the  inmost  shrine.    20 


FACE   TO   FACE 

Sad  mortal,  couldst  thou  but  know 

What  truly  it  means  to  die, 
The  wings  of  thy  soul  would  glow, 

And  the  hopes  of  thy  heart  beat  high; 
Thou  wouldst  turn  from  the  Pyrrhonist 

schools,  6 

And  laugh  their  jargon  to  scorn, 
As  the  babble  of  midnight  fools 

Ere  the  morning  of  Truth  be  born: 
But  I,  earth's  madness  above, 

In  a  kingdom  of  stormless  breath, —  10 
I  gaze  on  the  glory  of  love 

In  the  unveiled  face  of  Death. 

I  tell  thee  his  face  is  fair. 

As  the  moon-bow's  amber  rings, 
And  the  gleam  in  his  unbound  hair 

Like  the  flush  of  a  thousand  springs: 
His  face  is  the  fathomless  beam 

Of  the  star-shine's  sacred  light, 
When  the  summers  of  Southland  dream 

167 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

In  the  lap  of  the  holy  night;  20 

For  I,  earth's  blindness  above, 

In  a  kingdom  of  halcyon  breath, — 
I  gaze  on  the  marvel  of  love 

In  the  unveiled  face  of  Death. 

In  his  eyes  a  heaven  there  dwells,  25 

But  they  hold  few  mysteries  now, 
And  his  pity  for  earth's  farewells 

Half  furrows  that  shining  brow; 
Souls  taken  from  Time's  cold  tide 

He  folds  to  his  fostering  breast,  80 

And  the  tears  of  their  grief  are  dried 

Ere  they  enter  the  courts  of  rest; 
And  still,  earth's  madness  above, 

In  a  kingdom  of  stormless  breath, 
I  gaze  on  a  light  that  is  love  S5 

In  the  unveiled  face  of  Death. 

Through  the  splendor  of  stars  impearled 

In  the  glow  of  their  far-off  grace, 
He  is  soaring  world  by  world 

With  souls  in  his  strong  embrace;         40 
Lone  ethers  unstirred  by  a  wind 

At  the  passage  of  Death  grow  sweet, 
With  the  fragrance  that  floats  behind 

The  flash  of  his  winged  retreat; 
And  I,  earth's  madness  above,  *6 

'Mid  a  kingdom  of  tranquil  breath, 
Have  gazed  on  a  lustre  of  love 

In  the  unveiled  face  of  Death. 

But  beyond  the  stars  and  the  sun 

I  can  follow  him  still  on  his  way,        60 
Till  the  pearl-white  gates  are  won 

In  the  calm  of  the  central  day. 
168 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 


Far  voices  of  fond  acclaim 

Thrill  down  from  the  place  of  souls, 
As  Death,  with  a  touch  like  flame,  65 

Uncloses  the  goal  of  goals; 
And  from  heaven  of  heavens  above, 

God  speaketh  with  bateless  breath : — 
My  angel  of  perfect  love 

Is  the  angel  men  call  Death.  60 

THE  MOCKING-BIRD.  What  is  the  metrical 
scheme  in  this  ?  Show  how  the  diction  is  in  keeping 
with  the  theme.  Is  the  figure  of  the  fountain  apt? 
The  cadence  of  the  poem  is  worthy  that  of  the 
bird's  song. 

THE  PINE'S  MYSTERY.  3.  "Gitana":  a  gypsy 
dancer.  The  poet  loved  the  pine,  and  his  interpreta- 
tion of  its  mysterious  voices  here  is  artistic. 

MY  STUDY.  Hayne  excelled  in  the  sonnet;  these 
introduced  here  will  prove  the  assertion.  6.  "Area- 
dies":  demesnes  of  happiness,  referring  to  Arcadia, 
a  mountainous  district  of  Greece  renowned  for  its 
picturesqueness  and  for  the  simplicity  and  content- 
ment of  its  people.  Read  Wordsworth's  "  The 
World  Is  Too  Much  With  Us."  In  it  there  is  the 
same  protest  against  the  sordid  zeal  and  mammon 
conflicts  of  to-day  and  the  same  yearning  for  the 
heroic  life. 

CLOUD  FANTASIES.  What  mood  pervades  this? 
6.  "  Titan  " :  a  mythological  giant  The  same  word 
is  used  in  the  next  sonnet. 

A  COMPARISON.  This  is  full  of  suggestion  and  is 
worked  out  masterfully.  To  my  mind  the  poet 
never  surpassed  it.  Study  the  different  lives  rep- 
resented. 

THE  WILL  AND  THE  WING.    Give  the  thought  in 

169 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

the  poem  ?  9.  "  Tantalus  " :  a  character  in  Greek 
mythology  who,  as  penalty  for  divulging  the  secrets 
of  Zeus,  was  visited  with  an  insatiable  thirst. 
Ulysses,  when  relating  to  the  Phseacians  what  he  had 
beheld  in  the  lower  world,  describes  him  as  standing 
up  to  his  chin  in  water,  which  eludes  his  lips  as  often 
as  he  attempts  to  quench  his  tormenting  thirst. 
Above  his  head  grow  luscious  fruit  which,  whenever 
he  would  take  them,  the  wind  dissipates  to  clouds. 
15.  "Beggar":  what  allusion?  20.  Explain. 

FACE  TO  FACE.  This  is  a  noble,  triumphant  song, 
— one  of  the  last,  if  not  the  very  last,  of  his  poems. 
The  stanzas  close  with  almost  identical  lines;  this  is 
known  as  repetition.  What  is  the  measure?  5. 
"  Pyrrhonist " :  one  who  doubts  everything.  Point 
out  passages  of  exquisite  grace ;  as,  for  instance,  lines 
11  and  18.  In  imaginative  strength  the  poem  sug- 
gests Shelley's  "Cloud/'  The  poem  was  printed  in 
Harper's  Magazine,  through  the  courtesy  of  whose 
publishers  it  is  here  used. 


170 


John  Esten  Cooke 

1830-1886 

As  has  been  said,  John  Esten  Cooke  was  a  younger 
brother  of  Philip  Pendleton  Cooke.  He  left  school  at 
sixteen,  and  worked  in  his  father's  law  office  four 
years.  Afterwards  he  devoted  his  time  to  literature. 
He  was  a  voluminous  writer  along  four  lines — fic- 
tion, biography,  history,  and  poetry.  He  succeeded 
in  all,  but  achieved  distinction  in  the  first.  "  Surry 
of  Eagle's  Nest,"  "  The  Life  of  Stonewall  Jackson," 
"  Virginia,  a  History  of  the  People,"  and  the  sub- 
joined selection  from  his  poems  represent  him  in 
these  departments. 

MEMOEIES 

The  flush  of  sunset  dies 

Far  on  ancestral  trees; 

On  the  bright-booted  bees, 

On  cattle-dotted  leas ! 
And  a  mist  is  in  my  eyes,  5 

For  in  a  stranger  land 

Halts  the  quick-running  sand, 

Shaken  by  no  dear  hand ! 

How  plain  the  flowering  grass, 
The  sunset-flooded  door !  *° 

I  hear  the  river's  roar 
Say  clearly,  "Nevermore." 

I  see  cloud-shadows  pass 
Over  my  mountain  meres; 
Gone  are  the  rose-bright  years,         18 
Drowned  in  a  flood  of  tears. 

171 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 


THE  BAND  IN  THE  PINES 

After  Pelham  died 

Oh,  band  in  the  pine-wood,  cease ! 

Cease  with  your  splendid  call; 
The  living  are  brave  and  noble, 

But  the  dead  are  bravest  of  all! 

They  throng  to  the  martial  summons,  5 

To  the  loud  triumphant  strain, 

And  the  dear  bright  eyes  of  long-dead 

friends 
Come  to  the  heart  again. 

They  come  with  the  ringing  bugle, 

And  the  deep  drum's  mellow  roar;       10 

Till  the  soul  is  faint  with  longing 
For  the  hands  we  clasp  no  more ! 

Oh,  band  in  the  pine-wood,  cease ! 

Or  the  heart  will  break  with  tears, 
For  the  gallant  eyes  and  the  smiling  lips,15 

And  the  voices  of  old  years. 

MEMORIES.  The  second  line  is  notable;  but  the 
poem,  as  a  whole,  is  inferior  to  the  other  given. 

THE  BAND  IN  THE  PINES.  John  Pelham,  the 
gallant  young  Confederate  cannoneer,  fell  at  Freder- 
icksburg.  Read  Randall's  splendid  tribute  to  his 
memory,  included  in  this  book,  p.  209.  The  influence 
of  Tennyson  is  plainly  seen  in  this  poem;  indicate 
where.  But  it  is  a  conjuring  lyric  of  native  music, 
and  is  vibrant  with  emotion. 


172 


Will  Wallace  Harney 

1831 

Mr.  Harney  is  of  Kentucky  parentage  and  educa- 
tion, though  a  native  of  Indiana.  After  graduation 
in  law  at  the  Louisville  University,  he  first  turned  to 
teaching,  ultimately  occupying  the  chair  of  belles- 
lettres  at  Transylvania  University,  Lexington. 
Then  he  entered  journalism, — first  as  associate  editor 
of  the  Louisville  Democrat,  later  as  editor-in-chief. 
Leaving  this  position,  he  removed  to  Florida  and 
took  up  orange  culture,  at  the  same  time  directing  a 
paper  at  Kissimee  and  acting  as  correspondent  for 
Cincinnati,  Boston,  and  New  Orleans  dailies.  He 
is  now  a  resident  of  Miami,  Fla. 

His  poems,  contributed  to  various  periodicals,  have 
never  been  collected,  but  a  volume  made  up  of  such 
as  the  two  below  would  deserve  an  honorable  place  in 
American  literature. 

ADONAIS 

Shall  we  meet  no  more,  my  love,  at  the  binding  of 

the  sheaves, 

In  the  happy  harvest-fields,  as  the  sun  sinks  low, 
When  the  orchard  paths  are  dim  with  the  drift  of 

fallen  leaves, 
And  the  reapers  sing  together,  in  the  mellow,  misty 

eves: 

0,  happy  are  the  apples  when  the  south  winds 
blow!  6 

173 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Love  met  me  in  the  orchard,  ere  the  corn  had  gath- 
ered plume, — 
0,  happy  are  the  apples  when  the  south  winds 

blow! 
Sweet  as  summer  days  that  die  when  the  months  are 

in  the  bloom, 
And  the  peaks  are  ripe  with  sunset,  like  the  tassels 

of  the  broom, 
In  the  happy  harvest-fields  as  the  sun  sinks  low.  10 

Sweet  as  summer  days  that  die,  leafing  sweeter  each 

to  each, — 

0,  happy  are  the  apples  when  the  south  winds  blow ! 
All  the  heart  was  full  of  feeling:  love  had  ripened 

into  speech, 
Like  the  sap  that  turns  to  nectar  in  the  velvet  of  the 

peach, 
In  the  happy  harvest-fields  as  the  sun  sinks  low.  15 

Sweet  as  summer  days  that  die  at  the  ripening  of  the 

corn, — 

0,  happy  are  the  apples  when  the  south  winds  blow ! 
Sweet  as  lovers'  fickle  oaths,  sworn  to  faithless  maids 

forsworn, 
When  the  musty  orchard  breathes  like   a   mellow 

drinking-horn, 

Over   happy   harvest-fields    when   the   sun   sinks 
low.  20 

Love  left  us  at  the  dying  of  the  mellow  autumn 

eves, — 
0,  happy  are  the  apples  when  the  south  winds 

blow ! 
When  the  skies  are  ripe  and  fading,  like  the  colors  of 

the  leaves, 

174 


WILL   WALLACE   HARNEY 

And  the  reapers  kiss  and  part,  at  the  binding  of  the 

sheaves, 
In  the  happy  harvest-fields  as  the  sun  sinks  low.  25 

Then  the  reapers  gather  home,  from  the  gray  and 

misty  meres; — 
0,  happy  are  the  apples  when  the  south  winds 

blow! 
Then  the  reapers  gather  home,  and  they  bear  upon 

their  spears, 
One  whose  face  is  like  the  moon,  fallen  gray  among 

the  spheres, 
With  the  daylight's  curse  upon  it,  as  the  sun  sinks 

low.  30 

Faint  as  far-off  bugles  blowing,  soft  and  low  the 

reapers  sung; — 
0,  happy  are  the  apples  when  the  south  winds 

blow! 
Sweet  as  summer  in  the  blood,  when  the  heart  is  ripe 

and  young, 
Love  is  sweetest  in  the  dying,  like  the  sheaves  he  lies 

among, 
In  the  happy  harvest-fields  as  the  sun  sinks  low.  35 


THE   STAB 

On  the  road,  the  lonely  road, 
Under  the  cold,  white  moon, 

Under  the  ragged  trees,  he  strode ; 

He  whistled  and  shifted  his  heavy  load, — 
Whistled  a  foolish  tune. 
175 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

There  was  a  step,  timed  with  his  own, 

A  figure  that  stooped  and  bowed; 
A  cold,  white  blade  that  gleamed  and  shone, 
Like  a  splinter  of  daylight  downward  thrown; 
And  the  moon  went  behind  a  cloud.  10 

But  the  moon  came  out  so  broad  and  good, 
The  barn-cock  woke  and  crowed; 

Then  roughed  his  feathers  in  drowsy  mood; 

And  the  brown  owl  called  to  his  mate  in  the 

wood 
That  a  dead  man  lay  on  the  road.  15 

ADONAIS.  A  poetical  name  given  by  Shelley  to 
Keats,  on  whose  untimely  death  he  wrote  a  monody 
bearing  this  name  as  title.  Shelley  coined  the  name, 
probably  from  Adonis,  a  character  in  mythology. 

The  chief  merit  of  "  Adonais,"  like  many  of  Swin- 
burne's poems,  lies  in  its  melody.  Is  there  a  thread 
of  thought  traceable  through  it,  as,  for  instance,  in 
lines  1,  6,  13,  16,  21,  29,  34?  19.  " Musty".  As  to 
the  use  of  this  word  the  aged  poet  writes,  "  If  you 
will  go  into  an  orchard  when  the  fruit  is  ripe  or  cider 
making,  and  inhale  the  must  of  the  bruised  and  rot- 
ting apples,  you  will  understand  the  sense  of  the  line/' 
26.  "Meres":  meaning?  28,  29.  Does  the  poet  sac- 
rifice sense  to  rhyme?  The  latter  of  these  lines  is 
surpassingly  fine.  Point  out  any  confusion  of  ima- 
gery. 

THE  STAB.  This  is  a  masterful  piece  of  word 
painting.  What  brilliant  figure  in  the  heart  of  the 
poem?  Accessories  to  its  vividness  are,  epithet, — 
"  cold,  white  moon,"  "  ragged  trees " ;  verbs, — 
"gleamed  and  shone";  suggestion, — lines  3,  4;  fig- 
ure,— line  9. 

176 


Henry  Lynden  Flash 

1835 

The  parents  of  Mr.  Plash  came  from  the  West  In- 
dies and  settled  in  New  Orleans.  The  son  was  edu- 
cated at  the  Western  Military  Institute  of  Kentucky. 
He  volunteered  in  the  Confederate  army,  served  as 
aide  under  General  Joseph  Wheeler,  and  with  his  pen 
as  well  as  with  his  sword  was  an  ardent  supporter 
of  the  South.  After  the  war  he  edited  the  Confed- 
erate at  Macon,  Ga.,  and  subsequently,  for  twenty 
years,  engaged  in  business  in  New  Orleans.  He  now 
lives  in  Los  Angeles,  California,  where  he  is  treas- 
urer of  two  lighting  and  electric  companies  of  that 
city.  Although  over  seventy,  he  writes,  February 
10,  1904,  "  I  take  as  much  interest  in  current  events 
as  ever,  and  feel  no  older  than  I  did  twenty  years 
ago/' 

Under  the  pen  names,  "  Lynden  Eclair "  and 
"  Harry  Flash,"  he  wrote  at  will  lyrics  of  startling 
energy  and  native  pathos.  As  illustrative  of  his 
readiness,  this  story  is  recorded:  When  Flash  was 
editor  of  the  Confederate  the  foreman  came  to  him 
for  a  bit  of  copy  to  fill  out  his  form.  Flash  asked 
him  what  kind  he  needed.  On  being  told  there  was 
no  poetry  in  the  issue,  and  reminded  that  he  had 
written  on  the  death  of  Zollicoifer  and  Jackson  re- 
cently, he  determined  to  write  on  General  Polk,  who 
had  just  fallen  in  battle.  In  five  minutes  the  poem 
was  written;  and  in  twenty,  being  printed. 

A  volume  of  his  poems,  now  out  of  print,  appeared 
in  1860  from  the  presses  of  Rudd  and  Carleton, 

177 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

New  York.  He  has  ready  for  publication  another 
collection,  which,  since  the  above  was  written,  has 
been  published  (1906)  by  the  Neale  Publishing 
Company  of  New  York. 

TOGETHER 

We  loved  each  other  long  and  true, 

And  at  last  in  April  weather, 
When  the  crocus-buds  were  breaking  through, 
And  the  dying  moon  hung  faint  in  the  blue 

We  put  to  sea  together.  5 

For  years  we  sailed  a  sunny  main 
And  then  came  stormy  weather; 
Our  vessel  groaned  with  the  tug  and  strain, 
And  out  in  the  shrieking  wind  and  rain 

We  faced  the  gale  together.  10 

At  times  we  caught  a  glimpse  of  sky 

That  promised  clearing  weather, 
And  light  and  swift  our  bark  would  fly, 
Till  the  clouds  resumed  their  murky  dye 

And  we  sat  in  the  gloom  together.         15 

But  whether  the  sky  was  dark  or  bright, 

Or  fair  or  foul  the  weather, 
Our  love  was  ever  the  beacon  light 
That  cheered  our  souls  in  the  darkest  night, 

And  held  our  hearts  together.  20 

And  now  we  sail  in  our  battered  boat 

Unmindful  of  the  weather, 
The  winds  may  rave  and  the  clouds  may  gloat, 
But  little  we  care  if  we  sink  or  float, 

So  we  sink  or  float  together.  25 

178 


HENRY    LYNDEN   FLASH 


THAT'S   ALL 

Lilies  and  roses! 

Lilies  and  roses! 

Man  in  his  youth — 

The  season  of  Truth, 

When  Heaven  uncloses,  6 

With  his  eyes  on  the  skies 

Dreamily  lies 

On  his  lilies  and  roses. 

Nettles  and  thorns! 

Nettles  and  thorns!  10 

Man  in  his  manhood 

Sorrows  and  mourns. 

Girt  with  regrets 

He  rages  and  storms — » 

Tosses  and  frets  15 

On  his  nettles  and  thorns. 

In  the  dark  earth  at  last — 

The  Book  of  the  Past 

Time  silently  closes — 

No  longer  he  mourns —  *° 

N"o  longer  he  frets — 

Nothing  he  scorns — 

Nothing  regrets — 

But  calmly  reposes 

Under  nettles  and  thorns,  ** 

Under  lilies  and  roses. 


179 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 


THE  CONFEDERATE  CROSS  OF  HONOR 

As  even  a  tiny  shell  recalls 

The  presence  of  the  sea, 
So  gazing  on  this  cross  of  bronze, 

The  Past  recurs  to  me. 

I  see  the  Stars  and  Bars  unfurled,  6 

And  like  a  meteor  rise 
To  flash  upon  a  startled  world, 

A  wonder  in  the  skies. 

I  see  the  gathering  of  the  hosts, 

As  like  a  flood  they  come —  10 

I  hear  the  shrieking  of  the  fife — 
The  growling  of  the  drum. 

I  see  the  tattered  Flag  afloat 

Above  the  flaming  line — 
Its  ragged  folds,  to  dying  eyes,  ** 

A  token  and  a  sign. 

I  see  the  charging  hosts  advance — 

I  see  the  slow  retreat — 
I  hear  the  shouts  of  victory — 

The  curses  of  defeat.  20 

I  see  the  grass  of  many  fields 
With  crimson  life-blood  wet — 

I  see  the  dauntless  eyes  ablaze 
Above  the  bayonet. 

I  hear  the  crashing  of  the  shells  25 

In  Chickamauga's  pines — 
I  hear  the  fierce,  defiant  yells, 

Ring  down  the  waiting  lines. 
180 


HENRY    LYNDEN   FLASH 


I  hear  the  voices  of  the  dead — 

Of  comrades  tried  and  true —  I0 

I  see  the  pallid  lips  of  those 
Who  died  for  me  and  you. 

With  back  to  earth,  wherever  raged 

The  battle's  deadliest  brunt, 
I  see  the  men  I  loved — thank  God,  35 

With  all  their  wounds  in  front. 

The  many  varied  scenes  of  war 

Upon  my  vision  rise — 
I  liear  the  widow's  piteous  wail, 

I  hear  the  orphan's  cries. 

I  see  the  Stars  and  Bars  refurled, 

Unstained,  in  Glory's  hand, 
And  Peace  once  more  her  wings  unfold 

Above  a  stricken  land. 

All  this  and  more,  this  little  Cross  45 

Recalls  to  heart  and  brain — 
Beneath  its  mystic  influence 

The  dead  Past  lives  again. 

And  friends  who  take  a  parting  look 

When  I  am  laid  to  rest,  50 

Will  see  beside  the  cross  of  Christ, 
This  cross  upon  my  breast. 

POLK 

A  flash  from  the  edge  of  a  hostile  trench, 

A  puff  of  smoke, — a  roar, 
Whose  echo  shall  roll  from  Kennesaw  hills, — 

To  the  farthermost  Christian  shore, — 
Proclaims  to  the  world  that  the  warrior-priest 

Will  battle  for  right  no  more.  6 

181 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

And  that  for  a  cause  which  is  sanctified 

By  the  blood  of  martyrs  unknown, — 

A  cause  for  which  they  gave  their  lives, 

And  for  which  he  gave  his  own;  10 

He  kneels,  a  meek  ambassador, 

At  the  foot  of  the  Father's  throne. 

And  up  in  the  courts  of  another  world 
That  angels  alone  have  trod, 

He  lives,  away  from  the  din  and  strife  1B 

Of  this  blood-besprinkled  sod, 

Crowned  with  the  amaranthine  wreath 
That  is  worn  by  the  blest  of  Grod. 

STONEWALL  JACKSON 

Not  midst  the  lightning  of  the  stormy  fight, 
Nor  in  the  rush  upon  the  vandal  foe, 

Did  kindly  Death,  with  his  resistless  might, 
Lay  the  great  leader  low. 

His  warrior  soul  its  earthly  shackles  broke          5 
In  the  full  sunshine  of  a  peaceful  town; 

When  all  the  storm  was  hushed,  the  trusty  oak 
That  propped  our  cause  went  down. 

Though  his  alone  the  blood  that  flecks  the  ground, 
Recalling  all  his  grand  heroic  deeds,  10 

Freedom  herself  is  writhing  in  the  wound, 
And  all  the  country  bleeds. 

He  entered  not  the  Nation's  Promised  Land 
At  the  red  belching  of  the  cannon's  mouth,    14 

But  broke  the  House  of  Bondage  with  his  hand — 
The  Moses  of  the  South ! 
182 


HENRY   LYNDEN  FLASH 


0  gracious  God,  not  gainless  is  the  loss: 
A  glorious  sunbeam  gilds  thy  sternest  frown; 

And  while  his  country  staggers  'neath  the  Cross, 
He  rises  with  the  Crown !  20 

TOGETHER.  What  is  the  figure  running  through 
this:  trace  it. 

THAT'S  ALL.  What  spirit  pervades  these  lines? 
What  type  of  lyric  is  it?  Its  measure  and  scheme 
of  rhymes?  Interpret  it  throughout. 

THE  CROSS  OF  HONOR.  Type  of  poem?  5. 
"  Stars  and  Bars  " :  the  standard  of  the  Confederacy. 
11,  12.  Forceful  epithets.  See,  also,  in  lines  15,  23, 
25,  34,  etc. 

POLK.  See  introductory  sketch  of  the  author  for 
history  of  this  poem.  How  many  different  kinds 
of  feet  in  the  poem?  What  is  the  movement?  5. 
"Warrior-priest":  Leonidas  Polk,  born  in  Raleigh, 
N.  C.,  a  graduate  of  the  University  of  that  State  and 
of  the  United  States  Military  Academy  at  West 
Point,  became  a  bishop  in  the  Protestant  Episcopal 
church.  He  took  up  arms  in  the  Southern  cause  and 
as  a  lieutenant-general  exhibited  remarkable  strat- 
egy in  the  field.  17.  "Amaranthine":  fadeless. 

STONEWALL  JACKSON.  Another  ringing  war  lyric, 
and  one  of  the  author's  best  poems.  13-16.  Explain 
the  allusions. 


183 


Theophilus  Hunter  Hill 
1836-1901 

Mr.  Hill  was  a  North  Carolinian,  born  in  Wake 
County,  October  31,  1836.  Though  admitted  to  the 
bar,  he  never  practiced  his  profession.  His  leanings 
were  toward  literature,  and  he  gave  his  life  to  the 
pursuit  of  it.  At  one  time  he  was  editor  of  the 
Spirit  of  the  Age,  published  in  Ealeigh.  At  another 
he  held  the  place  of  State  Librarian,  a  position  that 
was  especially  congenial  to  one  of  his  tendencies. 

His  earliest  book,  "Hesper,  and  Other  Poems," 
published  in  Raleigh,  1861,  was  the  first  volume  of 
verse  under  copyright  of  the  Confederacy.  "  Poems," 
his  second  collection,  appeared  in  New  York,  1869; 
and  his  third,  and  last,  "  Passion  Flower,  and  Other 
Poems,"  bears  the  imprint  of  P.  W.  Wiley,  Ealeigh, 
1883.  The  closing  days  of  his  life  were  spent  in  a 
final  revision  of  such  of  his  work  as  he  desired  to 
have  survive.  This  task  he  left  unfinished. 

Hill's  lines  are  carefully  wrought.  He  had  the 
poet's  true  feeling  for  beauty.  Tennyson  and  Poe 
were  his  masters,  yet  his  songs  are  a  faithful  expres- 
sion of  his  own  pure  life. 

A  GANGESE   DEEAM 

Freighted  with  fruits,  aflush  with  flowers,— 
Oblations  to  offended  powers, — 
What  fairy-like  flotillas  gleam, 
At  night,  on  Brahma's  sacred  stream; 
184 


THEOPHILUS   HUNTER   HILL 

The  while,  ashore,  on  bended  knees  B 

Benighted  Hindoo  devotees 
Sue  for  their  silvery,  silken  sails 
The  advent  of  auspicious  gales! 

Such  gorgeous  pageant  I  have  seen 

Drift  down  the  Ganges,  while  I  stood,     10 
Within  the  banian's  bosky  screen, 

And  gazed  on  his  transfigured  flood: 
Around  each  consecrated  bark, 
That  sailed  into  the  outer  dark, 
What  lambent  lights  those  lanterns  gave !    15 

What  opalescent  mazes  played, 
Ee-duplicated  on  the  wave, 

While,  to  and  fro,  like  censers  swayed, 
They  made  it  luminous  to  glass 
Their  fleeting  splendors  ere  they  pass!       20 

O'er  each,  as  shimmering  it  swung, 
A  haze  of  crimson  halo  hung, 
Begirt  by  folds  of  billowy  mist, 
Suffused  with  purpling  amethyst : 
From  these,  still  fainter  halos  flung,          25 
Lent  each  to  some  refracted  zone 
Hues  of  a  lustre  not  its  own, 
Till,  satellite  of  satellite, 
Eluding  my  bewildered  sight, 
In  gloomier  eddies  of  the  stream,  30 

Eetained  no  more  a  borrowed  beam: 
Thus,  one  by  one,  their  sparkling  sails, 
Distended  by  Sabean  gales, 
I  saw  those  votive  vessels  glide, 
Resplendent,  o'er  the  swelling  tide,  S6 

While  each,  with  its  attendant  shade, 
Or  dusk,  or  radiant  ripples  made; 
185 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

These  flashing  into  fiery  bloom ; 

Those  smouldering  into  garnet-gloom ! 

All  this  I  saw,  or  else,  at  night,  40 

Pursuing  Fancy  in  her  flight, 

I  paused  beneath  what  seemed  to  be 

The  umbrage  of  a  banian-tree, 

And  down  the  Ganges  of  a  dream 

Beheld  that  gay  flotilla  gleam.  45 

It  seems  to  me  but  yesterday, 

Since  off  the  beach  of  Promise  lay 

The  brilliant  barges  Hope  had  wrought, 

And  young  Desire  had  richly  fraught, 

(Alas!  how  soon  such  tissues  fade!)  50 

With  fragile  stuff,  whence  dreams  are  made ! 

Proud  owner  of  that  fleet,  I  stood, 

Gazing  on  the  transfigured  flood, 

And  saw  its  constellated  sails, 

Expanded  by  propitious  gales,  55 

Till  shallop  after  shallop  flew, — 

As  fresher  yet  the  breezes  blew, — 

In  joyous  quest  of  full  fruition, 

To  swift  and  terrible  perdition ! 


Some,  in  life's  vernal  equinox,  «o 

O'er  desperate  seas  to  wreck  were 

driven ; 

And  others  struck  on  sunken  rocks, 
'Or,  in  the  night,  by  lightning  riven, 
Burned  to  the  water's  edge ;  while  they        64 
That,  not  unscathed,  but  still  unshattered, 
Survived  the  storm,  were  widely  scattered; 
One  only  kept  its  destined  way, 

186 


THEOPHILUS   HUNTER   HILL 

To  sink — no  friendly  consort  near — 
In  sight  of  port,  at  close  of  day, 
When  seas  were  calm,  and  skies  were 

clear !  70 


AN  IDEAL   SIESTA 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping." — THE  RAVEN. 

The  drowsy  hum  of  the  murmuring  bees, 

Hovering  over  the  lavender  trees, 

Steals  through  half-shut  lattices, — 

As  awake  or  asleep,  I  scarce  know  which, 

I  lazily  loll  near  a  window-niche,  B 

Whose  gossamer  curtains  are  softly  stirred 

By  the  gauzy  wings  of  a  humming-bird. 

From  airy  heights,  the  feathery  down, 
Blown  from  the  nettle's  nodding  crown, 
Weary  with  wandering  everywhere,  10 

Sails  slowly  to  earth  through  the  sultry  air; 
While  indolent  zephyrs,  oppressed  with 

perfume, 

Stolen  from  many  a  balmy  bloom, 
Are  falling  asleep  within  the  room. 

Now  floating  afar,  now  hovering  near,  •         u 
Dull  to  the  eye  and  dumb  to  the  ear, 
Grow  the  shapes  that  I  see,  the  sounds  that 

I  hear; 

Every  murmur  around  dies  into  my  dream, 
Save  only  the  song  of  a  sylvan  stream, 
Whose  burden,  set  to  a  somnolent  tune, 
Has  lulled  the  whispering  leaves  of  June, 
187 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

All  things  are  hazy,  and  dreamy,  and  dim; 

The  flies  in  lazier  circles  swim; 

On  slumberous  wings,  on  muffled  feet, 

Imaginary  sounds  retreat;  25 

And  the  clouds — Elysian  isles  that  lie 

In  the  bright  blue  sea  of  Summer  sky — • 

Fade  out,  before  my  closing  eye. 


IN  VUSTCULIS 
"It  is  no  friendly  environment, — this  of  thine" — CAHLYLE. 

By  no  grim  gaoler  am  I  held  in  thrall; 

I  bear  about  no  galling  ball  and  chain; 
No  sentries  guard  a  castellated  wall, 

Lest  I  attempt  my  freedom  to  regain; 
Yet  here  are  fetters  others  may  not  see,  B 

That  chafe  and  fret  and,  like  a  canker,  eat ; — 
While,  out  of  call, — though  visible  to  me, — 

What  ghostly  warders  glide  on  stealthy  feet! 
So  long  have  I  within  this  dungeon  dwelt, 

I  were  too  weak,  had  I  the  will  to  fly;  10 

For,  chilled  by  frost  no  sun  may  ever  melt, 

My  palsied  pinions  dream  not  of  the  sky : 
They  once  were  nerved  by  hope  and  high  intent, 
But  how  could  these  survive  this  drear  environment  ? 

A  GANGES  DREAM.  The  diction  in  this  is  worthy 
of  study.  4.  "Brahma's  sacred  stream":  the 
Ganges.  6.  "Hindoo  devotees":  Hindoo  worship- 
pers. 11.  "Banian's  bosky  screen";  the  banian  is  a 
tree  of  India  whose  branches  project  limbs  to  the 
ground.  These  take  root  and  form  new  trunks  and 
in  time  cover  hundreds  of  feet  in  area.  33.  "  Sa- 
bean  " :  Saba,  in  Arabia,  celebrated  for  the  production 
188 


THEOPHILUS   HUNTER    HILL 

of  aromatic  plants.     67-70.  What  is  the  poet's  prob- 
able meaning? 

AN  IDEAL  SIESTA.  This  picture  is  well-nigh  per- 
fect. One  of  the  lines  characterizes  it — 

"All  things  are  hazy  and  dreamy  and  dim." 

By  what  means  chiefly  is  this  effect  reached? 

IN  VINCDLIS.  This  sonnet  appears  here  for  the 
first  time.  The  title  is  Latin  and  means  "in 
chains."  The  author  rarely  used  this  poetical  form, 
but  once  he  has  made  it  the  vehicle  for  the  vigorous 
expression  of  intense  feeling. 


189 


Sarah  M.  B.  Piatt 

1836 

Mrs.  Piatt's  maiden  name  was  Sarah  Morgan 
Bryan.  She  is  a  native  of  Kentucky, — a  grand- 
daughter of  Morgan  Bryan,  one  of  the  early  settlers 
of  the  Middle  West  who  went  out  with  Daniel  Boone 
from  North  Carolina.  Miss  Bryan  was  educated  at 
New  Castle,  Ky.,  and  in  1861  was  married  to  John 
J.  Piatt,  the  poet  and  diplomat.  The  couple  have 
been  called  the  wedded  poets. 

Mrs.  Piatt  has  published  numerous  works,  and  she 
still  contributes  to  the  press.  Some  of  her  books 
are  "A  Woman's  Poems/'  "A  Voyage  to  the  For- 
tunate Isles,"  "  That  New  World,  and  Other  Poems," 
"  Poems  in  Company  with  Children,"  "  An  Irish 
Garland,"  "Child-World  Ballads,"  "An  Enchanted 
Castle,"  etc.  Her  work  has  been  well  received  both 
in  America  and  in  England. 

ENVOY 

Sweet  World,  if  you  will  hear  me  now : 
I  may  not  own  a  sounding  Lyre 

And  wear  my  name  upon  my  brow 
Like  some  great  jewel  quick  with  fire. 

But  let  me,  singing,  sit  apart,  5 

In  tender  quiet  with  a  few, 
And  keep  my  fame  upon  my  heart, 

A  little  blush-rose  wet  with  dew. 
190 


SARAH   M.    B.  PIATT 


THE  WITCH  IN  THE    GLASS 

"My  mother  says  I  must  not  pass 
Too  near  that  glass; 
She  is  afraid  that  I  will  see 
A  little  witch  that  looks  like  me, 
With  red,  red  mouth  to  whisper  low  6 

The  very  thing  I  should  not  know ! " 

"  Alack  for  all  your  mother's  care ! 

A  bird  of  air, 

A  wistful  wind,  or  (I  suppose 

Sent  by  some  hapless  boy)  a  rose,  10 

With  breath  too  sweet,  will  whisper  low 

The  very  thing  you  should  not  know ! " 

MY   BABES    IN*   THE   WOOD 

I  know  a  story,  fairer,  dimmer,  sadder, 
Than  any  story  painted  in  your  books. 

You  are  so  glad  ?    It  will  not  make  you  gladder ; 
Yet  listen,  with  your  pretty,  restless  looks. 

"  Is  it  a  fairy  story  ?  "    Well,  half  fairy,—  5 

At  least  it  dates  far  back  as  fairies  do, 

And  seems  to  me  as  beautiful  and  airy ; 
Yet  half,  perhaps  the  fairy  half,  is  true. 

You  had  a  baby  sister  and  a  brother 

(Two  very  dainty  people,  rosy  white,  10 

Each  sweeter  than  all  things  except  the  other!) 

Older  yet  younger,  gone  from  human  sight ! 

And  I,  who  loved  them,  and  shall  love  them  ever, 
And  think  with  yearning  tears  how  each  light  hand 

Crept  towards  bright  bloom  or  berries,  I  shall  never 
Know  how  I  lost  them.    Do  you  understand  ?    16 

191 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Poor  sightly  golden  heads !    I  think  I  missed  them 
First,  in  some  dreamy,  piteous,  doubtful  way; 

But  when  and  where  with  lingering  lips  I  kissed  them, 
My  gradual  parting,  I  can  never  say.  20 

Sometimes  I  fancy  that  they  may  have  perished 
In  shadowy  quiet  of  wet  rocks  and  moss, 

Near  paths  whose  very  pebbles  I  have  cherished, 
For  their  small  sakes,  since  my  most  lovely  loss. 

I  fancy,  too,  that  they  were  softly  covered  25 

By  robins,  out  of  apple-flowers  they  knew, 

Whose  nursing  wings  in  far  home  sunshine  hovered, 
Before  the  timid  world  had  dropped  the  dew. 

Their  names  were — what  yours  are!  At  this  you 
wonder. 

Their  pictures  are — your  own,  as  you  have  seen ;  30 
And  my  bird-buried  darlings,  hidden  under 

Lost  leaves — why  it  is  your  dead  selves  I  mean ! 

ENVOY.  What  is  the  exact  thought  ?  2.  "  Lyre  " : 
what  figure?  4.  A  fine  figure  here;  what?  7. 
Meaning? 

THE  WITCH  IN  THE  GLASS.  The  author  here  and 
in  the  next  selection  proves  she  lias  not  forgotten  the 
path  back  into  childhood. 

MY  BABIES  IN  THE  WOOD.  What  allusion  in  the 
title?  What  kind  of  poem  is  this?  Scheme  and 
kind  of  rhymes?  Scan  one  stanza.  Is  the  story 
brightened  at  the  close?  What  impression  does  it 
leave  as  a  whole?  It  is  informed  with  love  and 
tenderness.  It  is  one  of  the  poems  that  should  be 
read  more  than  once. 


192 


Mary  Ashley  Townsend 

1836-1901 

Mrs.  Townsend's  maiden  name  was  Van  Voorhis. 
Though  born  in  Lyons,  N.  Y.,  she  was  married  to 
Mr.  Gideon  Townsend,  of  New  Orleans,  and  had 
made  that  city  her  home. 

Her  first  contributions,  a  series  of  humorous  papers 
entitled  "  Quillotypes,"  in  the  New  Orleans  Delta, 
appeared  under  the  pen  name,  "  Xariffa."  Other 
works  of  hers  are  "  Poems,"  published  in  Philadel- 
phia, 1870;  and  "Down  the  Bayou,  and  Other 
Poems/'  Boston,  1884.  She  was  officially  appointed 
to  deliver  the  poem  at  the  opening  of  the  New 
Orleans  Exposition,  1884 ;  and  that  one  at  the  unveil- 
ing of  the  statue  of  Albert  Sidney  Johnston,  1887. 

CEEED 

I  believe  if  I  should  die, 

And  you  should  kiss  my  eyelids  while  I  lie 

Cold,  dead,  and  dumb  to  all  the  world  contains, 
The  folded  orbs  would  open  at  thy  breath, 
And  from  its  exile  in  the  isles  of  death  5 

Life  would  come  gladly  back  along  my  veins. 

I  believe  if  I  were  dead, 

And  you  upon  my  lifeless  heart  should  tread, 

Not  knowing  what  the  poor  clod  chanced  to  be, 
It  would  find  sudden  pulse  beneath  the  touch  10 

Of  thee  it  ever  loved  in  life  so  much, 

And  throb  again,  warm,  tender,  true  to  thee. 
193 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

I  believe  if  on  my  grave, 

Hidden  in  woody  deeps  or  by  the  wave,  14 

Your  eyes  should  drop  some  warm  tears  of  regret, 
From  every  salty  seed  of  thy  dear  grief 
Some  fair  sweet  blossom  would  leap  into  leaf, 

To  prove  death  could  not  make  my  love  forget. 

I  believe  if  I  should  fade 

Into  those  mystic  realms  where  light  is  made,        20 

And  you  should  long  once  more  my  face  to  see, 
I  would  come  forth  upon  the  hills  of  night 
And  gather  stars  like  fagots,  till  thy  sight, 

Led  by  the  beacon  blaze,  fell  full  on  me. 

I  believe  my  faith  in  thee  ,  25 

Strong  as  my  life,  so  nobly  placed  to  be, 

I  would  as  soon  expect  to  see  the  sun 
Fall  like  a  dead  king  from  his  height  sublime, 
His  glory  stricken  from  the  throne  of  time, 

As  thee  unworth  the  worship  thou  hast  won.        30 

I  believe  who  hath  not  loved 

Hath  half  the  sweetness  of  his  life  unproved, 

Like  the  one  who  with  the  grape  within  his  grasp 
Drops  it  with  all  its  crimson  juice  unpressed, 
And  all  its  luscious  sweetness  left  unguessed,  85 

Out  from  his  careless  and  unheeding  clasp. 

I  believe  love,  pure  and  true, 

Is  to  the  soul  a  sweet  immortal  dew 

That  gems  life's  petals  in  its  hours  of  dusk, — 
The  waiting  angels  see  and  recognize  40 

The  rich  crown  jewel,  Love,  of  Paradise, 

When  life  falls  from  us  like  a  withered  husk. 
194 


MARY  ASHLEY    TOWNSEND 


A  GEORGIA  VOLUNTEER 

Far  up  the  lonely  mountain-side 

My  wandering  footsteps  led; 
The  moss  lay  thick  beneath  my  feet, 

The  pine  sighed  overhead. 
The  trace  of  a  dismantled  fort  5 

Lay  in  the  forest  nave, 
And  in  the  shadow  near  my  path 

I  saw  a  soldier's  grave. 

The  bramble  wrestled  with  the  weed 

Upon  the  lowly  mound,  10 

The  simple  headboard,  rudely  writ, 

Had  rotted  to  the  ground; 
I  raised  it  with  a  reverent  hand, 

From  dust  its  words  to  clear, 
But  time  had  blotted  all  but  these—  15 

"A  Georgia  Volunteer!" 

I  saw  the  toad  and  scaly  snake 

From  tangled  covert  start, 
And  hide  themselves  among  the  weeds 

Above  the  dead  man's  heart;  20 

But  undisturbed,  in  sleep  profound, 

Unheeding,  there  he  lay; 
His  coffin  but  the  mountain  soil, 

His  shroud  Confederate  Gray. 

I  heard  the  Shenandoah  roll  *5 

Along  the  vale  below, 
I  saw  the  Alleghanies  rise 

Towards  the  realms  of  snow. 
195 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

The  "  Valley  Campaign  "  rose  to  mind, — 
Its  leader's  name, — and  then  30 

I  knew  the  sleeper  had  been  one 
Of  Stonewall  Jackson's  men. 

Yet  whence  he  came,  what  lip  shall  say? 

Whose  tongue  will  ever  tell 
What  desolated  hearths  and  hearts  35 

Have  been  because  he  fell? 
What  sad-eyed  maiden  braids  her  hair, 

Her  hair  which  he  held  dear  ? — 
One  lock  of  which,  perchance,  lies  with 

The  Georgia  Volunteer !  40 

What  mother,  with  long  watching  eyes 

And  white  lips  cold  and  dumb, 
Waits  with  appalling  patience  for 

Her  darling  boy  to  come? 
Her  boy !  whose  mountain  grave  swells  up    45 

But  one  of  many  a  scar 
Cut  on  the  face  of  our  fair  land 

By  gory-handed  war. 

What  fights  he  fought,  what  wounds  he  wore, 

Are  all  unknown  to  fame;  50 

Remember,  on  his  lonely  grave 

There  is  not  e'en  a  name ! 
That  he  fought  well  and  bravely,  too, 

And  held  his  country  dear, 
We  know,  else  he  had  never  been  5B 

A  Georgia  Volunteer. 

He  sleeps — what  need  to  question  now 

If  he  were  wrong  or  right? 
He  knows  ere  this  whose  cause  was  just 

In  God  the  Father's  sight.  60 

196 


MARY   ASHLEY    TOWNSEND 

He  wields  no  warlike  weapons  now, 
Keturns  no  foeman's  thrust, — 

Who  but  a  coward  would  revile 
An  honest  soldier's  dust? 

Roll,  Shenandoah,  proudly  roll,  w 

Adown  thy  rocky  glen, 
Above  thee  lies  the  grave  of  one 

Of  Stonewall  Jackson's  men. 
Beneath  the  cedar  and  the  pine, 

In  solitude  austere,  70 

Unknown,  unnamed,  forgotten,  lies 

A  Georgia  Volunteer. 

CREED.  There  is  some  sincerity  in  these  lines; 
yet  do  they  lack  it  anywhere?  Examine  them  with 
these  points  in  mind.  What  is  the  metrical  scheme  ? 

A  GEORGIA  VOLUNTEER.  Classify  this  poem.  6. 
"Nave":  meaning?  9.  Figure?  29.  "Valley 
Campaign ":  Jackson's  memorable  campaign  in  the 
Valley  of  Virginia.  65-72.  Two  echoes  of  Byron 
here;  point  them  out.  The  poem  is  a  noble  tribute 
to  the  brave  unknown  dead. 


197 


!A.bram  J.  Ryan 

1839-1886 

* 

This  writer  is  known  both  as  "  Father  Ryan  "  and 
as  "  the  Poet-Priest."  He  was  born  of  Irish  parent- 
age, in  Norfolk,  Va.,  but  the  family  removed  to  St. 
Louis,  where  the  boy  received  the  training  prepara- 
tory to  entrance  at  the  Catholic  Seminary,  of 
Niagara,  N.  Y. 

Through  a  deep  spiritual  conviction  he  was  or- 
dained into  the,  priesthood,  and  at  the  opening  of 
the  Civil  War  was  chosen  a  chaplain,  though  his  fiery 
enthusiasm  for  the  cause  of  the  South  often  led  him 
into  the  ranks.  This  intense  devotion  is  vividly 
shown  in  his  fierce  lyrics,  "  The  Sword  of  Lee  "  and 
"  The  Conquered  Banner."  For  a  long  time  he  re- 
fused to  accept  the  results  of  the  struggle,  and  used 
much  of  his  time  in  lecturing  for  the  aid  of  the 
widows,  orphans,  and  maimed  soldiers  of  the  South. 

His  last  years  were  spent  in  the  faithful  pursuit 
of  his  ministerial  duties, — in  Mississippi,  Tennessee, 
Georgia — editing  at  one  time  The  Banner  of  the 
South,  and  venting  in  it  his  indignation  upon  the 
iniquitous  Reconstructionists.  He  died  in  a  Francis- 
can monastery,  at  Louisville. 

There  is  a  prevailing  note  of  melancholy  in  many 
of  Ryan's  poems, — attributable,  very  likely,  to  the 
loss  of  an  early  love.  One  of  his  longer  pieces, 
"Their  Story  Runneth  Thus/'  leads  one  to  this  con- 
clusion. Still,  his  songs  are  wholesome.  They  deal 
with  the  serious  experiences  of  life — its  disappoint- 
198 


ABRAM   J.   RYAN 


ments,  changes,  defeats,  end ;  but  there  is  an  abiding 
faith  through  all.  From  a  technical  point  his  work  is 
defective.  He  recognized  this  himself,  for  he  tells  us 
in  his  preface:  "They  were  written  at  random — 
off  and  on,  here,  there  and  everywhere,  just  as  the 
mood  came ;  with  little  study  and  less  of  art,  and  al- 
ways in  a  hurry." 


THE   CONQUERED   BANNER 

Furl  that  Banner,  for  'tis  weary; 
Round  its  staff  'tis  drooping  dreary; 

Furl  it,  fold  it,  it  is  best; 
For  there's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
And  there's  not  a  sword  to  save  it,  5 

And  there's  not  one  left  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  which  heroes  gave  it; 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it; 

Furl  it,  hide  it--let  it  rest ! 

Take  that  Banner  down!  'tis  tattered;          10 
Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered; 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered 

Over  whom  it  floated  high. 
Oh !  'tis  hard  for  us  to  fold  it ; 
Hard  to  think  there's  none  to  hold  it;          15 
Hard  that  those  who  once  unrolled  it 

Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh. 

Furl  that  Banner !  furl  it  sadly ! 
Once  ten  thousand  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  ten  thousand  wildly,  madly, 
Swore  it  should  forever  wave; 

199 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Swore  that  foeman's  sword  should  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever. 
Till  that  flag  should  float  forever 

O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave!  25 

Furl  it !  for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 

Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low; 
And  that  Banner — it  is  trailing! 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing  30 

Of  its  people  in  their  woe. 

For,  though  conquered,  they  adore  it ! 
Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it ! 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it ! 
Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it !  35 

But,  oh !  wildly  they  deplore  it, 
Now  who  furl  and  fold  it  so. 

Furl  that  Banner !     True,  'tis  gory, 
Yet  'tis  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  'twill  live  in  song  and  story, 

Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust: 
For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages, 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages, 
Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages — 

Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must.  45 

Furl  that  Banner,  softly,  slowly! 
Treat  it  gently — it  is  holy — 

For  it  droops  above  the  dead. 
Touch  it  not — unfold  it  never, 
Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever,  60 

For  its  people's  hopes  are  dead ! 
200 


ABRAM   J.   RYAN 


THE  SWORD  OP  ROBERT  LEE 

[Forth  from  its  scabbard,  pure  and  bright, 

Flashed  the  sword  of  Lee! 
Far  in  the  front  of  the  deadly  fight, 

High  o'er  the  brave  in  the  cause  of  Right, 
Its  stainless  sheen,  like  a  beacon  light,  5 

Led  us  to  victory. 

Out  of  its  scabbard,  where  full  long 

It  slumbered  peacefully, 
Roused  from  its  rest  by  the  battle's  song, 
Shielding  the  feeble,  smiting  the  strong,  10 

Guarding  the  right,  avenging  the  wrong, 

Gleamed  the  sword  of  Lee. 

Forth  from  its  scabbard,  high  in  air 

Beneath  Virginia's  sky — 

And  they  who  saw  it  gleaming  there,  15 

And  knew  who  bore  it,  knelt  to  swear 
That  where  that  sword  led  they  would  dare 
To  follow — and  to  die. 

Out  of  its  scabbard !     Never  hand 

Waved  sword  from  stain  as  free ;  80 

NOT  purer  sword  led  braver  band, 
Nor  braver  bled  for  a  brighter  land, 
Nor  brighter  land  had  a  cause  so  grand, 

Nor  cause  a  chief  like  Lee ! 

Forth  from  its  scabbard !     How  we  prayed       25 

That  sword  might  victor  be; 
And  when  our  triumph  was  delayed, 
And  many  a  heart  grew  sore  afraid, 
We  still  hoped  on  while  gleamed  the  blade 

Of  noble  Robert  Lee.  30 

201 


STUDY.  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Forth  from  its  scabbard  all  in  vain 
Bright  flashed  the  sword  of  Lee; 
'Tis  shrouded  now  in  its  sheath  again, 
It  sleeps  the  sleep  of  our  noble  slain, 
Defeated,  yet  without  a  stain,  85 

Proudly  and  peacefully. 

DEATH 

Out  of  the  shadows  of  sadness, 
Into  the  sunshine  of  gladness, 

Into  the  light  of  the  blest; 
Out  of  a  land  very  dreary, 
Out  of  the  world  very  weary,  5 

Into  the  rapture  of  rest. 

Out  of  to-day's  sin  and  sorrow, 
Into  a  blissful  to-morrow, 

Into  a  day  without  gloom; 
Out  of  a  land  filled  with  sighing,  10 

Land  of  the  dead  and  the  dying, 

Into  a  land  without  tomb. 

Out  of  a  life  of  commotion, 
Tempest-swept  oft  as  the  ocean, 

Dark  with  the  wrecks  drifting  o'er,        15 
Into  a  land  calm  and  quiet; 
Never  a  storm  cometh  nigh  it, 

Never  a  wreck  on  its  shore. 

Out  of  a  land  in  whose  bowers 

Perish  and  fade  all  the  flowers;  20 

Out  of  the  land  of  decay, 
Into  the  Eden  where  fairest 
Of  flowerets,  and  sweetest  and  rarest, 

Never  shall  wither  away. 
202 


ABRAM   J.   RYAN 


Out  of  the  world  of  the  wailing  25 

Thronged  with  the  anguished  and  ailing; 

Out  of  the  world  of  the  sad,  • 
Into  the  world  that  rejoices — 
World  of  bright  visions  and  voices — 

Into  the  world  of  the  glad.  30 

Out  of  a  life  ever  mournful, 
Out  of  a  land  very  lornful, 

Where  in  bleak  exile  we  roam, 
Into  a  joy-land  above  us, 
Where  there's  a  Father  to  love  us —        35 

Into  our  home — "  Sweet  Home." 

PRESENTIMENT 

Cometh  a  voice  from  a  far-land, 

Beautiful,  sad,  and  low; 
Shineth  a  light  from  the  star-land 

Down  on  the  night  of  my  woe ; 
And  a  white  hand,  with  a  garland,  B 

Biddeth  my  spirit  to  go. 

Away  and  afar  from  the  night-land, 
Where  sorrow  o'ershadows  my  way, 

To  the  splendors  and  skies  of  the  light-land, 
Where  reigneth  eternity's  day, —  10 

To  the  cloudless  and  shadowless  bright-land, 
Whose  sun  never  passeth  away. 

And  I  knew  the  voice ;  not  a  sweeter 

On  earth  or  in  Heaven  can  be; 
And  never  did  shadow  pass  fleeter 

Than  it,  and  its  strange  melody; 
And  I  know  I  must  hasten  to  meet  her, 

"  Yea,  Sister!    Thou  callest  to  me !  " 
203 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

And  I  saw  the  light;  'twas  not  seeming, 
It  flashed  from  the  crown  that  she  wore,        20 

And  the  brow,  that  with  jewels  was  gleaming, 
My  lips  had  kissed  often  of  yore ! 

And  the  eyes,  that  with  rapture  were  beaming, 
Had  smiled  on  me  sweetly  before. 

And  I  saw  the  hand  with  the  garland,  25 

Ethel's  hand — holy  and  fair; 
Who  went  long  ago  to  the  far-land 

To  weave  me  the  wreath  I  shall  wear; 
And  to-night  I  look  up  to  the  star-land 

And  pray  that  I  soon  may  be  there.  3e 

THE  CONQUERED  BANNER.  In  its  exalted  mood 
and  complicated  metrical  structure  this  assumes  the 
nature  of  an  ode.  26,  27.  The  figurative  and  the  lit- 
eral; a  defect.  29.  "Banner — it":  what  figure? 
35.  What  nature  of  the  author  here  disclosed?  49- 
51.  What  spirit  toward  the  Union  is  evinced  ? 

THE  SWORD  OF  LEE.  A  war  lyric.  Its  stanzas 
are  regular.  21-24.  This  climax  reveals  the  author's 
exalted  opinion  of  Lee;  how? 

DEATH.  Ryan's  spirit  was  in  accord  with  this 
theme.  What  is  the  measure  and  stanza  structure? 
Is  the  poem  strengthening? 

PRESENTIMENT.  Classify  as  to  type.  1.  "A 
voice":  that  of  his  lost  love.  Allusions  are  made 
elsewhere  to  this  early  loss.  30.  This  yearning  for 
death  often  finds  expression  in  his  verses. 


204 


James  Ryder  Randall 

1839-1908 

Eandall  was  a  Baltimorean.  He  received  his  scho- 
lastic training  at  Georgetown  College,  Washington, 
and  when  a  young  man  went  to  Louisiana,  where 
he  held  for  some  time  a  professorship  in  Poydras  Col- 
lege, at  Point  Coupee.  There  he  wrote  the  poem  by 
which  he  is  best  known.  Afterwards  he  was  con- 
nected with  the  Sunday  Delta,  in  New  Orleans,  and 
still  later  with  the  Constitutionalist  at  Augusta,  Ga. 
He  was  an  ardent  supporter  of  the  Southern  cause, 
though  his  physical  condition  kept  him  from  the 
field. 

"For  six  years/'  he  writes  from  Augusta,  Ga., 
February  19,  1904,  "  I  was  private  secretary  of  Hon. 
Wm.  H.  Fleming,  congressman  from  this,  district.  I 
have  done  a  great  deal  of  editorial  writing  on  various 
subjects.  At  present  I  may  describe  myself  as  living 
by  my  wits — turning  my  hand  to  whatever  honorably 
presents  itself." 

His  poems  have  recently  been  collected,  and  some 
of  them  are  of  surpassing  excellence.  In  addition 
to  those  included  here,  the  following  are  eminently 
worth  study,  "The  Sole  Sentry,"  "The  Battle-Cry  of 
the  South,"  and  "  There's  Life  in  the  Old  Land  Yet." 

THE  CAMEO  BRACELET 

Eva  sits  on  the  ottoman  there, 
Sits  by  a  Psyche  carved  in  stone, 

With  just  such  a  face  and  just  such  an  air 
As  Esther  upon  her  throne. 
205 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

She's  sifting  lint  for  the  brave  who  bled,          5 
And  I  watch  her  fingers  float  and  flow 

Over  the  linen,  as  thread  by  thread 
It  flakes  to  her  lap  like  snow. 

A  bracelet  clinks  on  her  delicate  wrist, 

Wrought  as  Cellini's  were  at  Rome,  10 

Out  of  the  tears  of  the  amethyst 
And  the  wan  Vesuvian  foam. 

And  full  on  the  bauble-crest  alway, 

A  cameo  image,  keen  and  fine, 
Gleams  thy  impetuous  knife,  Corday,  15 

And  the  lava-locks  are  thine. 

I  thought  of  the  war-wolves  on  our  trail, 
Their  gaunt  fangs  sluiced  with  gouts  of 
blood, 

Till  the  Past,  in  a  dead,  mesmeric  veil, 

Drooped  with  its  wizard  flood ;  20 

Till  the  surly  blaze  through  the  iron  bars 
Shot  to  the  hearth  with  a  pang  and  cry, 

While  a  lank  howl  plunged  from  the  Champ 

de  Mars 
To  the  Column  of  July; 

Till  Corday  sprang  from  the  gem,  I  swear,       25 
And  the  dove-eyed  damsel  I  knew  had  flown; 

For  Eva  was  not  on  the  ottoman  there 
By  Psyche  carved  in  stone. 

She  grew  like  a  Pythoness,  flushed  with  fate, 
'Mid  the  incantation  in  her  gaze,  30 

A  lip  of  scorn,  an  arm  of  hate, 
A  dirge  of  the  Marseillaise ! 
206 


JAMES   RYDER   RANDALL 


Eva,  the  vision  was  not  wild 

When  wreaked  on  the  tyrants  of  the  land; 
For  you  were  transfigured  to  Nemesis,  child, 
With  the  dagger  in  your  hand ! 


MY   MARYLAND 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland ! 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore  5 

That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 

Maryland!     My  Maryland! 

Hark  to  an  exiled  son's  appeal, 

Maryland !  10 

My  Mother-State,  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland ! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel,   16 

Maryland!     My  Maryland! 


Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland ! 

Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust; 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland!     My  Maryland! 

207 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Come !  'tis  the  red  dawn  of  the  day,  25 

Maryland ! 
Come !  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland ! 

With  RInggold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood,  at  Monterey,  30 

With  fearless  Lowe,  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland !     My  Maryland ! 

Dear  Mother,  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain,  35 

Maryland ! 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain, 
"Sic  Semper" — 'tis  the  proud  refrain, 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland!  40 

Arise  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland!     My  Maryland! 

Come !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come !  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong,    45 

Maryland ! 

Come !  to  thine  own  heroic  throng, 
Striding  with  Liberty  along, 
And  ring  thy  dauntless  slogan  song, 

Maryland !     My  Maryland !       50 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 

But,  lo !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek  65 

From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek, — 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland!     My  Maryland! 
208 


JAMES   RYDER   RANDALL 


Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland !  6° 

Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland  i 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  shot,  the  blade,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul,  65 

Maryland!     My   Maryland! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder-hum, 

Maryland ! 
The  Old  Line  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland!  70 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb — 
Huzza !  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum ! 
She  breathes — she  burns!  she'll  come! 
she'll  come! 

Maryland!    My  Maryland! 

JOHN   PELHAM 

Just  as  the  Spring  came  laughing  through  the  strife, 

With  all  its  gorgeous  cheer, 
In  the  bright  April  of  historic  life 

Fell  the  great  cannoneer. 

The  wondrous  lulling  of  a  hero's  breath  * 

His  bleeding  country  weeps; 
Hushed  in  the  alabaster  arms  of  Death 

Our  young  Marcellus  sleeps. 

Nobler  and  grander  than  the  Child  of  Rome, 

Curbing  his  chariot  steeds;  10 

The  knightly  scion  of  a  Southern  home 
Dazzled  the  land  with  deeds. 
209 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Gentlest  and  bravest  in  the  battle  brunt, 

The  champion  qf  the  truth, 
He  bore  his  banner  to  the  very  front  ** 

Of  our  immortal  youth. 

A  clang  of  sabres  'mid  Virginian  snow, 

The  fiery  pang  of  shells, 
And  there's  a  wail  of  immemorial  woe 

In  Alabama  dells.  20 

The  pennon  droops  that  led  the  sacred  band 

Along  the  crimson  field ; 
The  meteor  blade  sinks  from  the  nerveless  hand 

Over  the  spotless  shield. 

We  gazed  and  gazed  upon  that  beauteous  face        25 

While  round  the  lips  and  eyes, 
Couched  in  their  marble  slumber,  flashed  the  grace 

Of  a  divine  surprise. 

Oh,  mother  of  a  blessed  soul  on  high, 

Thy  tears  may  soon  be  shed;  30 

Think  of  thy  boy  with  princes  of  the  sky 

Among  the  Southern  dead. 

How  must  he  smile  on  this  dull  world  beneath, 

Fevered  with  swift  renown; 
He  with  the  martyr's  amaranthine  wreath  35 

Twining  the  victor's  crown. 


AT  ARLINGTON 

The  stately  column,  reared  in  air, 

To  him  who  made  our  country  great, 
Can  almost  cast  its  shadow  where 
The  victims  of  a  grand  despair, 
210 


JAMES   RYDER   RANDALL 


In  long,  long  ranks  of  death  await 
The  last,  loud  trump  and  Judgment  Sun, 

Which  comes  for  all,  and,  soon  or  late, 
Will  come  for  those  at  Arlington. 

In  that  vast  sepulchre  repose 

The  thousands  reaped  from  every  fray; 
The  Men  in  Blue  who  once  uprose 
In  battle  front  to  smite  their  foes — 

The  Spartan  bands  who  wore  the  Gray. 
The  combat  o'er,  the  death-hug  done, 

In  Summer  blaze  or  Winter  snows, 
They  keep  the  truce  at  Arlington. 

And  almost  lost  in  myriad  graves 
Of  those  who  gained  th'  unequal  fight, 

Are  mounds  that  hide  Confederate  braves 

Who  reck  not  how  the  North  wind  raves, 
In  dazzling  day  or  dimmest  night. 

O'er  those  who  lost  and  those  who  won, 
Death  holds  no.  parley  which  was  right — 

Jehovah  judges  Arlington! 

The  dead  had  rest ;  the  dove  of  peace 
Brooded  o'er  both  with  equal  wings. 

To  both  had  come  that  great  surcease, 

The  last  omnipotent  release 
From  all  the  world's  delirious  stings. 

To  bugle  deaf  and  signal  gun, 

They  slept,  like  heroes  of  old  Greece, 

Beneath  the  glebe  at  Arlington. 

And  in  the  Spring's  benignant  reign, 

The  sweet  May  woke  her  harp  of  pines; 
Teaching  her  choir  a  thrilling  strain 
Of  jubilee  to  land  and  main, 
211 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

She  danced  in  emerald  down  the  lines. 
Denying  largess  bright  to  none, 

She  saw  no  difference  in  the  signs 
That  told  who  slept  at  Arlington. 

She  gave  her  grasses  and  her  showers 
To  all  alike  who  dreamed  in  dust ; 

Her  song-birds  wove  their  dainty  bowers 

Amid  the  jasmine  buds  and  flowers 
And  piped  with  an  impartial  trust. 

Waifs  of  the  air  and  liberal  sun ! 
Their  guileless  glees  were  kind  and  just 

To  friend  and  foe  at  Arlington. 

And  'mid  the  generous  Spring  there  came 
Some  women  of  the  land,  who  strove 

To  make  this  funeral  field  of  fame 

Glad  as  the  May  god's  altar  flame, 
With  rosy  wreaths  of  mutual  love 

Unmindful  who  had  lost  or  won, 

They  scorned  the  jargon  of  a  name — 

No  North,  no  South,  at  Arlington. 

Between  their  pious  thought  and  God 
Stood  files  of  men  with  brutal  steel; 

The  garlands  placed  on  "  Eebel  sod  " 

Were  trampled  in  the  common  clod 
To  die  beneath  the  hireling's  heel. 

Facing  this  triumph  of  the  Hun, 
Our  Smoky  Caesar  gave  no  nod 

To  keep  the  peace  at  Arlington. 

Jehovah  judged,  abashing  man; 
For,  in  the  vigils  of  the  night, 
His  mighty  storm-avengers  ran 
Together  in  one  choral  clan 
212 


JAMES   RYDER   RANDALL 


Rebuking  wrong,  rewarding  right. 
Plucking  the  wreaths  from  those  who  won, 

The  tempest  heaped  them  dewy-bright 
On  Rebel  graves  at  Arlington 

And,  when  the  morn  came,  young  and  fair, 
Brimful  of  blushes  ripe  and  red, 

Knee-deep  in  sky-sent  roses  there, 

Nature  began  her  earliest  prayer 
Above  triumphant  Southern  Dead. 

So,  in  the  dark  and  in  the  sun, 

Our  Cause  survives  the  tyrant's  tread 

And  sleeps  to  wake  at  Arlington ! 

THE  CAMEO  BRACELET.  2.  "Psyche":  explain. 
4.  "  Esther ":  what  character  and  what  attribute  of 
hers  are  suggested  in  the  preceding  line  ?  10.  "  Cel- 
lini": an  Italian  artist  in  metal.  15.  "De  Corday 
d'Armons,"  a  French  heroine;  the  assassinator  of 
Marat.  23.  "Champ  de  Mars":  one  of  the  parks 
in  Paris.  24.  "  Column  of  July  " :  erected  in  Place 
de  la  Bastile,  Paris,  to  commemorate  the  French 
Revolution  of  1830.  30.  "Pythoness":  a  female 
supposed  to  have  a  spirit  of  divination.  36.  "  Neme- 
sis": the  goddess  of  vengeance.  What  kind  of  a 
lyric,  and  what  is  the  central  thought? 

MARYLAND.  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  in  any 
language  a  war  lyric  that  burns  with  a  fiercer  passion 
than  this.  It  has  been  called  the  Marseillaise  of  the 
Confederacy.  It  was  written  one  night  in  1861  at 
Point  Coupe*e,  as  has  been  stated,  and  was  published 
in  Baltimore  to  the  air  of  an  old  German  Burschen- 
lied.  In  that  year  it  is  no  wonder  such  ringing  lines, 
set  to  such  stirring  music,  fired  the  souls  of  seven 
millions  of  people.  21.  Charles  Carroll,  of  Carroll- 
213 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

ton,  one  of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence. 22.  John  Eager  Howard,  a  Revolutionary 
leader,  who  displayed  great  gallantry, — notably  at 
the  battle  of  Cowpens,  where  at  one  time  in  the  day 
he  held  the  swords  of  seven  British  officers  who  had 
surrendered  to  him.  Explain  other  references  to 
persons.  Is  there  any  irregularity  in  the  stanza 
form? 

JOHN  PELHAM.  Compare  with  John  Esten  Cooke's 
poem  on  the  same  subject,  p.  172.  8.  "  Marcellus  " : 
a  Roman  consul;  the  conqueror  of  Syracuse.  The 
forceful  diction  and  the  striking  figures  are  worthy 
of  special  notice. 

AT  ARLINGTON.  On  the  day  that  the  graves  of  the 
Federal  soldiers  buried  at  Arlington  were  decorated, 
in  1869,  a  number  of  ladies  entered  the  cemetery  for 
the  purpose  of  placing  flowers  on  the  graves  of  thirty 
Confederates.  Their  progress  was  stopped  by  bayo- 
nets, and  they  were  not  allowed  to  perform  their  mis- 
sion of  love.  During  the  night  a  high  wind  arose, 
and  in  the  morning  all  the  floral  offerings  that  had 
been  placed  the  day  before  upon  the  Federal  graves 
were  found  piled  upon  the  mounds  under  which  re- 
posed the  thirty  Confederates.  What  men  had  de- 
nied nature  had  granted;  nay,  had  taken  into  her 
own  hands  to  perform. 


214 


John  Lancaster  Spalding 

1840 

Bishop  Spalding  was  born  in  Lebanon,  Ky.  After 
his  preparatory  studies  were  finished  at  St.  Mary's, 
Ky.,  he  went  to  Mount  St.  Mary's,  Cincinnati,  and 
thence  to  the  American  College,  Louvain,  Belgium, 
where  he  was  ordained  priest  in  1863.  A  year  then 
spent  in  special  studies  in  Eome  found  him  well 
equipped  to  begin  his  life  work.  In  1865  he  entered 
upon  his  priestly  career  at  the  Cathedral  of  Louis- 
ville. Even  at  this  time  he  was  a  scholar  of  marked 
attainments,  and  was  chosen  theologian  to  Arch- 
bishop Blanchet,  of  Oregon,  at  the  second  Plenary 
Council,  Baltimore,  in  1866. 

On  May  1,  1877,  he  was  consecrated  first  bishop 
of  the  diocese  of  Peoria.  His  inheritance  of  talent 
and  piety  had  been  so  largely  increased  by  his  per- 
sonal worth  that  he  at  once  took  high  rank  in  a  dis- 
tinguished hierarchy. 

Two  books  of  virile  verse,  "America,  and  Other 
Poems  "  and  "  The  Poet's  Praise,"  gave  assurance  of 
his  gifts.  This  assurance  has  been  made  doubly  sure 
by  his  "  God  and  the  Soul,"  published  in  1902." 

He  is  active  in  educational  and  literary  move- 
ments, and  is  a  vigorous  writer  on  various  subjects. 
His  poems  are  notable  for  their  imaginative  range 
and  religious  fervor. 

SILENCE 

Inaudible  move  day  and  night, 
And  noiseless  grows  the  flower; 

Silent  are  pulsing  wings  of  light, 
And  voiceless  fleets  the  hour. 
315 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

The  moon  utters  no  word  when  she  5 

Walks  through  the  heavens  bare; 

The  stars  forever  silent  flee, 

And  songless  gleam  through  air. 

The  deepest  love  is  voiceless  too; 

Heart  sorrow  makes  no  moan:  10 

How  still  the  zephyrs  when  they  woo! 

How  calm  the  rose  full  blown ! 

The  bird  winging  the  evening  sky 

Plies  onward  without  song; 
The  crowding  years  as  they  pass  by          15 

Mow  on  in  mutest  throng. 

The  fishes  glide  through  liquid  deep 

And  never  speak  a  word; 
The  angels  round  about  us  sweep, 

And  not  a  whisper's  heard.  20 

The  highest  thoughts  no  utterance  find^. 

The  holiest  hope  is  dumb, 
In  silence  grows  the  immortal  mind, 

And,  speechless,  deep  joys  come. 

Rapt  adoration  has  no  tongue  25 

No  words  has  holiest  prayer; 

The  loftiest  mountain-peaks  among 
Is  stillness  everywhere. 

With  sweetest  music  silence  blends, 

And  silent  praise  is  best ;  30 

In  silence  life  begins  and  ends: 
God  cannot  be  expressed. 
216 


JOHN    LANCASTER   SPALDING 


THE   STARRY  HOST 

The  countless  stars,  which  to  our  human  eye 
Are  fixed  and  steadfast,  each  in  proper  place, 
Forever  bound  to  changeless  points  in  space, 

Rush  with  our  sun  and  planets  through  the  sky, 

And  like  a  flock  of  birds  still  onward  fly;  5 

Returning  never  whence  began  their  race. 
They  speed  their  ceaseless  way  with  gleaming  face 

As  though  God  bade  them  win  Infinity. 

Ah,  whither,  whither  is  their  forward  flight 

Through  endless  time  and  limitless  expanse  ?        10 

What  Power  with  unimaginable  might 

First  hurled  them  forth  to  spin  in  tireless  dance? 

What  Beauty  lures  them  on  through  primal  night, 
So  that  for  them  to  be  is  to  advance  ? 

THE  VAST  UNKNOWN 

The  vast  abyss  of  space  is  without  light, 
Forever  dark,  and  like  deep  hidden  mine, 
Where,  here  and  there,  rich  glowing  rubies  shine; 

While  all  else  lies  clothed  in  eternal  night. 

The  watcher  on  the  loftiest  mountain  height  5 

In  the  full  noon  sees  all  the  stars  in  line, 
Burning  like  lamps  before  a  holy  shrine, 

As  through  the  dark  it  breaks  on  pilgrim's  sight. 

So  in  the  boundless  world  of  truth  we  see 
But  little  isles  that  brighten  to  our  eyes,  10 

While  all  else  lies  lost  in  obscurity; 

And  we  move  on  amid  the  dim-lit  skies, 

From  point  to  point  through  the  dark  mystery, 
Still  calling  God  with  our  sad,  piteous  cries. 

217 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 


AT  THE  NINTH  HOUR 

Eli,  Eli,  lama  sabachthani  ? 

0  sadder  than  the  ocean's  wailing  moan, 

Sadder  than  homes  whence  life  and  joy  have  flown, 
Than  graves  where  those  we  love  in  darkness  lie; 
More  full  of  anguish  than  all  agony 

Of  broken  hearts,  forsaken  of  their  own 

And  left  in  hopeless  misery  alone, 
Is  this,  0  sweet  and  loving  Christ,  Thy  cry! 
For  this,  this  only  is  infinite  pain: 

To  feel  that  God  Himself  has  turned  away. 
If  He  abide  all  loss  may  still  be  gain, 

And  darkest  night  be  beautiful  as  day. 
But  lacking  Him  the  universe  is  vain, 

And  man's  immortal  soul  is  turned  to  clay. 

SILENCE.  24.  A  halting  line.  32.  The  thought 
of  the  entire  poem  is  gathered  up  in  this  one  line. 

THE  STARRY  HOST.  The  poet  is  strongest  in  his 
sonnets.  This  and  the  others  given  are  of  remem- 
berable  excellence.  They  are  found  in  his  last  book, 
"  God  and  the  Soul,"  a  volume  containing  this  form 
almost  exclusively.  What  theory  of  the  stellar  uni- 
verse is  referred  to  in  this  ? 

AT  THE  NINTH  HOUR.  What  greater  theme  was 
ever  taken  than  these  tragic,  last  words  of  our 
Saviour?  One  cannot  resist  the  feeling  that  if  the 
poet  had  worked  his  thought  up  to  them  as  his  last 
line  the  effect  would  have  been  more  powerful ;  but  it 
is  a  great  sonnet  as  it  stands. 


218 


William  Gordon  McCabe 

1841 

Mr.  McCabe  is  a  Virginian,  a  graduate  of  the  uni- 
versity of  that  State,  and  until  recently  the  director 
of  a  high  school,  first  established  in  Petersburg,  but 
afterwards  removed  to  Richmond.  In  the  Civil  War 
he  was  a  captain  of  artillery,  and  did  valiant  service 
throughout  that  conflict.  At  Appomattox  Court- 
house," just  before  the  surrender,  and  after  it  was 
known  that  the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia  would  be . 
surrendered,  McCabe,  Richard  Walke,  James  Din- 
widdie,  John  Hampden  Chamberlayne,  and  other  dis- 
tinguished young  artillery  officers,  concluding  that 
they  were  not  willing  to  give  up  the  fight,  left  the 
army  before  the  surrender  and  gradually  made  their 
way  through  the  country  towards  General  Johnston's 
division,  near  Greensboro,  N.  C.,  where  they  intended 
to  report  for  duty — and  did;  but  General  Johnston 
surrendered  before  they  had  an  opportunity  to  see 
any  further  service.  McCabe  was  paroled  in  Rich- 
mond in  May,  1865. 

Besides  occasional  poems,  he  has  written  essays, 
reviews,  sketches,  and  translations  from  the  ecclesi- 
astical poetry  of  the  Middle  Ages.  He  is  an  author- 
ity on  Latin.  Dr.  Gildersleeve  speaks  of  him  as  "  a 
Latinist  of  exact  and  penetrating  scholarship."  He 
enjoyed  the  friendship  of  Tennyson,  and  wrote  for 
the  Century  Magazine,  March,  1902,  his  personal 
recollections  of  the  great  poet. 
219 


A   STUDY   IN    SOUTHERN   POETRY 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    OF   '63 

The  wintry  blast  goes  wailing  by, 

The  snow  is  falling  overhead; 

I  hear  the  lonely  sentry's  tread, 
And  distant  watch-fires  light  the  sky. 

Dim  forms  go  flitting  through  the  gloom ;    5 
The  soldiers  cluster  round  the  blaze 
To  talk  of  other  Christmas  days, 

And  softly  speak  of  love  and  home. 

My  sabre  swinging  overhead 
Gleams  in  the  watch-fire's  fitful  glow,      10 
While  fiercely  drives  the  blinding  snow, 

And  memory  leads  me  to  the  dead. 

My  thoughts  go  wandering  to  and  fro, 
Vibrating  'twixt  the  N"ow  and  Then; 
I  see  the  low-browed  home  again,  15 

The  old  hall  wreathed  with  mistletoe. 

And  sweetly  from  the  far-off  years 

Comes  borne  the  laughter  faint  and  low, 
The  voices  of  the  Long  Ago ! 

My  eyes  are  wet  with  tender  tears.  20 

I  feel  again  the  mother-kiss, 
I  see  again  the  glad  surprise 
That  lightened  up  the  tranquil  eyes 

And  brimmed  them  o'er  with  tears  of  bliss. 

As,  rushing  from  the  old  hall  door,  25 

She  fondly  clasped  her  wayward  boy — 
Her  face  all  radiant,  with  the  joy 

She  felt  to  see  him  home  once  more. 
220 


WILLIAM   GORDON  McCABE 

My  sabre  swinging  on  the  bough 

Gleams  in  the  watch-fire's  fitful  glow,    80 
While  fiercely  drives  the  blinding  snow 

Aslant  upon  my  saddened  brow. 

Those  cherished  faces  all  are  gone ! 
Asleep  within  the  quiet  graves 
Where  lies  the  snow  in  drifting  waves,-  35 

And  I  am  sitting  here  alone. 

There's  not  a  comrade  here  to-night 
But  knows  that  loved  ones  far  away 
On  bended  knees  this  night  will  pray: 

"  God  bring  our  darling  from  the  fight! "  40 

But  there  are  none  to  wish  me  back, 
For  me  no  yearning  prayers  arise, 
The  lips  are  mute  and  closed  the  eyes, — 

My  home  is  in  the  bivouac. 

DREAMING    IN   THE    TRENCHES 

I  picture  her  there  in  the  quaint  old  room, 
When  the  fading  firelight  starts  and  falls, 

Alone  in  the  twilight's  tender  gloom 

With  the  shadows  that  dance  on  the  dim-lit  walls. 

Alone,  while  those  faces  look  silently  down  5 

From  their  antique  frames  in  a  grim  repose, — 

Slight  scholarly  Ralph  in  his  Oxford  gown, 
And  stout  Sir  Alan,  who  died  for  Montrose. 

There  are  gallants  gay  in  crimson  and  gold, 

There  are  smiling  beauties  in  powdered  hair,        10 

But  she  sits  there,  fairer  a  thousand-fold, 
Leaning  dreamily  back  in  her  low  arm-chair. 
221 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

And  the  roseate  shadows  of  fading  light, 
Softly  clear,  steal  over  the  sweet  young  face, 

Where  a  woman's  tenderness  blends  to-night  15 

With  the  guileless  pride  of  a  haughty  race. 

Her  hands  lie  clasped  in  a  listless  way 

On  the  old  romance — which  she  holds  on  her  knee — 
Of  Tristram,  the  bravest  of  knights  in  the  fray, 

And  Iseult,  who  waits  by  the  sounding  sea.          20 

And  her  proud,  dark  eyes  wear  a  softened  look, 
As  she  watches  the  dying  embers  fall, — 

Perhaps  she  dreams  of  the  knight  in  the  book, 
Perhaps  of  the  pictures  that  smile  on  the  wall. 

What  fancies,  I  wonder,  are  thronging  her  brain,    25 
For  her  cheeks  flush  warm  with  a  crimson  glow ! 

Perhaps — Ah!  me,  how  foolish  and  vain! 
But  I'd  give  my  life  to  believe  it  so. 

Well,  whether  I  ever  march  home  again 

To  offer  my  love  and  a  stainless  name,  so 

Or  whether  I  die  at  the  head  of  my  men, 

I'll  be  true  to  the  end  all  the  same. 


OISTLY   A  MEMORY 
old  times,  they  cling,  they  cling. — OWEN  MEBEDITH. 


Still  I  can  see  her  before  me, 
As  in  the  days  of  old, 

Her  lips  of  serious  sweetness, 
Hair  of  the  richest  gold. 


WILLIAM    GORDON   McCABE 

II 

The  rings  on  her  dainty  fingers,  B 

Love  in  her  tender  eyes, 
And  the  sweet  young  bosom  heaving 

With  low,  delicious  sighs. 

Ill 

Is  it  a  wonder  I  love  her  ? 

That  through  long  years  of  pain,  10 

I  still  am  true  to  the  old  love, 

The  love  alas !  in  vain. 

HOWITZER  CAMP, 

YOEKTOWN,  OCT.  1861. 

CHRISTMAS  NIGHT.  This  is  the  stanza-type  used 
by  Tennyson  in  his  great  poem,  "In  Memoriam." 
What  mood  pervades  these  verses?  44.  "Bivouac": 
meaning  ? 

DREAMING  IN  THE  TRENCHES.  What  is  the  meas- 
ure of  this?  Scan  the  first  stanza.  What  type  of 
lyric?  7,  8.  Explain  proper  names.  19,  20.  Sir 
Tristram,  the  hero  of  an  old  Cymric  romance  in 
which  Iseult,  the  daughter  of  the  king  of  Ireland,  is 
involved,  was  connected  with  King  Arthur's  court. 
His  adventures  have  been  related  by  Thomas  the 
Ehymer  and  many  another  romancist.  Bead  Mat- 
thew Arnold's  "Tristram  and  Iseult" 

ONLY  A  MEMORY.  There  is  a  peculiar  charm 
about  this  and  the  foregoing  poem.  Wherein  does 
it  lie? 


223 


Sidney  Lanier 

1842-1881 

Mr.  Lanier  was  born  in  Macon,  Ga.,  February  3, 
1842,  and  died  in  Lynn,  N.  C.,  September  7,  1881. 
A  love  for  music  and  poetry  was  his  by  inheritance, 
and  was  a  solace  to  him  through  a  life  of  toil,  sick- 
ness, poverty,  and  disappointment.  For  while  he 
lived  to  see  his  work  appreciated,  it  was  at  a  time 
when  he  had  risen  from  many  a  defeat  and  was 
waging  a  losing  fight  with  death. 

He  was  a  graduate  of  Oglethorpe  College,  Midway, 
Ga.,  class  of  1860;  and  soon  afterwards  volunteered 
in  the  Confederate  Army.  He  became  a  scout,  and 
later  a  blockade  runner,  exhibiting  courage  on  many 
an  occasion.  While  in  this  last-named  service  he 
was  captured  near  Fort  Fisher  and  taken  to  Point 
Lookout. 

After  the  war  he  taught  school  for  a  while  at  Pratt- 
ville,  Ala.  Then  he  studied  and  practiced  law  with 
his  father  in  his  native  town.  Giving  up  this  work, 
he  went  to  Baltimore,  where  he  was  engaged  as  first 
flute  for  the  Peabody  Symphony  concerts.  Here  he 
made  his  home  and  addressed  himself  to  music  and 
literature.  But  meantime  tuberculosis,  contracted 
in  camp,  had  developed,  and  he  was  driven  from  work 
to  tent  life  in  the  high,  pure  atmosphere  around 
Asheville,  N.  C.,  where  the  end  was  not  long  delayed. 

He  entertained  original  ideas  of  a  close  relation- 
ship between  music  and  poetry ;  these  he  defined  and 
illustrated  in  a  course  of  lectures  at  Johns  Hopkins 
University,  later  appearing  in  a  volume  entitled, 
"  The  Science  of  English  Verse."  These  theories  are 
224 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


generally  regarded  as  vague,  but  it  may  be  the  critics 
of  them  cannot  see  so  far  into  the  affinity  of  ethereal 
things  as  Lanier's  fine  spirit  could  see.  Other  vol- 
umes by  him  are,  "  Tiger  Lilies :  a  Novel,"  "  Florida : 
Its  Scenery,  Climate,  and  History,"  "  Poems,"  "  The 
English  Novel,  and  the  Principles  of  Its  Develop- 
ment," "The  Boy's  Froissart,"  etc.  "Poems," 
edited  by  his  wife,  with  an  introduction  by  William 
Hayes  Ward,  editor  of  the  Independent,  appeared 
soon  after  the  poet's  death. 

Lanier  stands  in  the  forefront  of  Southern  poets, 
and  when  he  has  been  assigned  his  true  place  in  liter- 
ature he  will  be  rated  among  the  very  first  in  Amer- 
ica. No  other  poet  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic  has 
surpassed  him  either  in  boldness  of  imagery  or  in 
vigor  of  diction. 


EVENING   SONG 

Look  off,  dear  love,  across  the  sallow  sands, 
And  mark  yon  meeting  of  the  sun  and  sea, 

How  long  they  kiss  in  eight  of  all  the  lands, 
Ah!  longer  we! 

Now  in  the  sea's  red  vintage  melts  the  sun,  6 

As  Egypt's  pearl  dissolved  in  rosy  wine, 

And  Cleopatra  night  drinks  all.    'T  is  done, 
Love,  lay  thine  hand  in  mine. 

Come  forth,  sweet  stars,  and  comfort  heaven's  heart ; 

Glimmer,  ye  waves,  round  else  unlighted  sands;  10 
0  night !  divorce  our  sun  and  sky  apart — 

Never  our  lips,  our  hands. 
225 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 


THE  CRYSTAL 

At  midnight,  death's  and  truth's  unlocking  time, 

When  far  within  the  spirit's  hearing  rolls 

The  great  soft  rumble  of  the  course  of  things — 

A  bulk  of  silence  in  a  mask  of  sound — 

When  darkness  clears  our  vision  that  by  day  6 

Is  sun-blind,  and  the  soul's  a  ravening  owl 

For  truth,  and  flitteth  here  and  there  about 

Low-lying  woody  tracts  of  time  and  oft 

Is  minded  for  to  sit  upon  a  bough, 

Dry-dead  and  sharp,  of  some  long-stricken  tree        10 

And  muse  in  that  gaunt  place, — 'twas  then  my  heart, 

Deep  in  the  meditative  dark,  cried  out : 

Ye  companies  of  governor-spirits  grave, 

Bards,  and  old  bringers-down  of  flaming  news 

From  steep-walled  heavens,  holy  malcontents,          1B 

Sweet  seers,  and  stellar  visionaries,  all 

That  brood  about  the  skies  of  poesy, 

Full  bright  ye  shine,  insuperable  stars ; 

Yet,  if  a  man  look  hard  upon  you,  none 

With  total  lustre  blazeth,  no,  not  one  20 

But  hath  some  heinous  freckle  of  the  flesh 

Upon  his  shining  cheek,  not  one  but  winks 

His  ray,  opaqued  with  intermittent  mist 

Of  defect ;  yea,  you  masters  all  must  ask 

Some  sweet  forgiveness,  which  we  leap  to  give,      25 

We  lovers  of  you,  heavenly-glad  to  meet 

Your  largess  so  with  love,  and  interplight 

Your  geniuses  with  our  mortalities. 

Thus  unto  thee,  0  sweetest  Shakespere  sole, 
A  hundred  hurts  a  day  I  do  forgive  30 

22(5 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


('Tis  little,  but,  enchantment!  'tis  for  thee) : 
Small  curious  quibble;    .    .    .    Henry's  fustian  roar 
Which  frights  away  that  sleep  he  invocates; 
Wronged  Valentine's  unnatural  haste  to  yield; 
Too-silly  shifts  of  maids  that  mask  as  men  35 

In  faint  disguises  that  could  ne'er  disguise — » 
Viola,  Julia,  Portia,  Eosalind; 
Fatigues  most  drear,  and  needless  overtax 
Of  speech  obscure  that  had  as  lief  be  plain. 

.  .  .  Father  Homer,  thee,  40 

Thee  also  I  forgive  thy  sandy  wastes 
Of  prose  and  catalogue,  thy  drear  harangues 
That  tease  the  patience  of  the  centuries, 
Thy  sleazy  scrap  of  story, — but  a  rogue's 
Rape  of  a  light-o'-love, — too  soiled  a  patch  45 

To  broider  with  the  gods. 

Thee,  Socrates, 

Thou  dear  and  very  strong  one,  I  forgive 
Thy  year-worn  cloak,  thine  iron  stringencies 
That  were  but  dandy  upside-down,  thy  words 
Of  truth  that,  mildlier  spoke,  had  manlier  wrought.  50 

So,  Buddha,  beautiful !     I  pardon  thee 
That  all  the  All  thou  hadst  for  needy  man 
Was  Nothing,  and  thy  Best  of  being  was 
But  not  to  be. 


Worn  Dante,  I  forgive 

The  implacable  hates  that  in  thy  horrid  hells          6i 
Or  burn  or  freeze  thy  fellows,  never  loosed 
By  death,  nor  time,  nor  love. 

227 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

And  I  forgive 

Thee,  Milton,  those  thy  comic-dreadful  wars 
Where,  armed  with  gross  and  inconclusive  steel, 
Immortals  smite  immortals  mortalwise,  60 

And  fill  all  heaven  with  folly. 

Also  thee, 

Brave  ^Eschylus,  thee  I  forgive,  for  that 
Thine  eye,  by  bare  bright  justice  basilisked, 
Turned  not,  nor  ever  learned  to  look  where  Love 
Stands  shining. 

So,  unto  thee,  Lucretius  mine,      65 
(For  oh,  what  heart  hath  loved  thee  like  to  this 
That's  now  complaining?)  freely  I  forgive 
Thy  logic  poor,  thine  error  rich,  thine  earth 
Whose  graves  eat  souls  and  all. 

Yea,  all  you  hearts 

Of  beauty,  and  sweet  righteous  lovers  large:          70 
Aurelius  fine,  oft  superfine;  mild  Saint 
A  Kempis,  overmild;  Epictetus, 
Whiles  low  in  thought,  still  with  old  slavery  tinct ; 
Rapt  Behmen,  rapt  too  far;  high  Swedenborg, 
O'ertoppling ;  Langley,  that  with  but  a  touch  75 

Of  art  hadst  sung  Piers  Plowman  to  the  top 
Of  English  songs,  whereof  'tis  dearest,  now, 
And  most  adorable;  Caedmon,  in  the  morn 
A-calling  angels  with  the  cowherd's  call 
That  late  brought  up  the  cattle;  Emerson,  80 

Most  wise,  that  yet,  in  finding  wisdom,  lost 
Thy  Self,  sometimes ;  tense  Keats,  with  angels'  nerves 
Where  men's  were  better ;  Tennyson,  largest  voice 
Since  Milton,  yet  some  register  of  wit 
Wanting, — all,  all,  I  pardon,  ere  'tis  asked,  85 

228 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


Your  more  or  less,  your  little  mole  that  marks 

Your  brother  and  your  kinship  seals  to  man. 

But  Thee,  but  Thee,  0  sovereign  Seer  of  time, 

But  Thee,  0  poets'  Poet,  Wisdom's  Tongue, 

But  Thee,  0  man's  best  Man,  0  love's  best  Love,     90 

0  perfect  life  in  perfect  labor  writ, 

0  all  men's  Comrade,  Servant,  King,  or  Priest, 

What  if  or  yet,  what  mole,  what  flaw,  what  lapse, 

What  least  defect  or  shadow  of  defect, 

What  rumor,  tattled  by  an  enemy,  95 

Of  inference  loose,  what  lack  of  grace 

Even  in  torture's  grasp,  or  sleep's,  or  death's — 

Oh,  what  amiss  may  I  forgive  in  Thee, 

Jesus,  good  Paragon,  thou  Crystal  Christ? 


SUNBISE 

In  my  sleep  I  was  fain  of  their  fellowship,  fain 

Of  the  live-oak,  the  marsh,  and  the  main. 

The  little  green  leaves  would  not  let  me  alone  in  my 

sleep ; 
Up  breathed  from  the  marshes,  a  message  of  range 

and  of  sweep, 

Interwoven  with  waftures  of  wild  sea-liberties,  drift- 
ing, 5 
Came  through  the  lapped  leaves  sifting,  sifting, 

Came  to  the  gates  of  sleep. 

Then  my  thoughts,  in  the  dark  of  the  dungeon-keep 
Of  the  Castle  of  Captives  hid  in  the  City  of  Sleep, 
Upstarted,  by  twos  and  by  threes  assembling : 
The  gates  of  sleep  fell  a-trembling 
Like  as  the  lips  of  a  lady  that  forth  falter  yes, 
Shaken  with  happiness: 
The  gates  of  sleep  stood  wide. 

229 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

I  have  waked,  I  have  come,  my  beloved !     I  might  not 
abide:  15 

I  have  come  ere  the  dawn,  0  beloved,  my  live-oaks, 
to  hide 

In  your  gospeling  glooms — to  be 

As  a  lover  in  heaven,  the  marsh  my  marsh  and  the 
sea  my  sea. 

Tell  me,  sweet  burly-barked,  man-bodied  Tree 

That  mine  arms  in  the  dark  are  embracing,  dost 

know  20 

From  what  fount  are  these  tears  at  thy  feet  which 

flow? 
They  rise  not  from  reason,  but  deeper  inconsequent 

deeps. 

Reason's  not  one  that  weeps. 
What  logic  of  greeting  lies 
Betwixt  dear  over-beautiful  trees  and  the  rain  of  the 

eyes?  25 

0  cunning  green  leaves,  little  masters !  like  as  ye 

gloss 
All  the  dull-tissued  dark  with  your  luminous  darks 

that  emboss 
The  vague  blackness  of  night  into  pattern  and  plan, 

So, 
(But    would   I   could   know,   but   would   I    could 

know,)  30 

With  your  question  embroid'ring  the  dark  of  the 

question  of  man, — 

So,  with  your  silences  purfling  this  silence  of  man 
While  his  cry  to  the  dead  for  some  knowledge  is 

under  the  ban, 

Under  the  ban, — 

So,  ye  have  wrought  me 
230 


SIDNEY    LANIER 


Designs  on  the  night  of  our  knowledge, — yea,  ye 
have  taught  me, 

So, 
That  haply  we  know  somewhat  more  than  we  know. 

Ye  lispers,  whisperers,  singers  in  storms, 
Ye  consciences  murmuring  faiths  under  forms,    40 
Ye  ministers  meet  for  each  passion  that  grieves, 
Friendly,  sisterly,  sweetheart  leaves, 
Oh,  rain  me  down  from  your  darks  that  contain  me 
Wisdoms  ye  winnow  from  winds  that  pain  me, — » 
Sift  down  tremors  of  sweet-within-sweet  45 

That  advise  me  of  more  than  they  bring, — repeat 
Me  the  woods-smell  that  swiftly  but  now  brought 

breath 

From  the  heaven-side  bank  of  the  river  of  death, — 
Teach  me  the  terms  of  silence, — preach  me 
The  passion  of  patience, — sift  me, — impeach  me, —  50 

And  there,  oh  there 

As  ye  hang  with  your  myriad  palms  upturned  in  the 
air, 

Pray  me  a  myriad  prayer. 
My  gossip,  the  owl, — is  it  thou 
That  out  of  the  leaves  of  the  low-hanging  bough,    55 
As  I  pass  to  the  beach,  art  stirred? 
Dumb  woods,  have  ye  uttered  a  bird? 

Reverend  Marsh,  low-couched  along  the  sea, 
Old  chemist,  rapt  in  alchemy, 

Distilling  silence, — lo,  .  60 

That  which  our  father-age  had  died  to  know — 
The  menstruum  that  dissolves  all  matter — thou 
Hast  found  it :  for  this  silence,  filling  now 
The  globed  clarity  of  receiving  space, 
This  solves  us  all :  man,  matter,  doubt,  disgrace,      65 
Death,  love,  sin,  sanity, 

231 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Must  in  yon  silence'  clear  solution  lie. 

Too  clear!     That  crystal  nothing  who'll  peruse? 

The  blackest  night  could  bring  us  brighter  news, 

Yet  precious  qualities  of  silence  haunt  70 

Round  these  vast  margins,  ministrant. 

Oh,  if  thy  soul's  at  latter  gasp  for  space, 

With  trying  to  breathe  no  bigger  than  thy  race 

Just  to  be  fellowed,  when  that  thou  hast  found 

No  man  with  room,  or  grace  enough  of  bound         75 

To  entertain  that  New  thou  tell'st,  thou  art,- — 

'Tis  here,  'tis  here,  thou  canst  unhand  thy  heart 

And  breathe  it  free,  and  breathe  it  free, 

By  rangy  marsh,  in  lone  sea-liberty. 

The  tide's  at  full :  the  marsh  with  flooded  streams  80 

Glimmers,  a  limpid  labyrinth  of  dreams. 

Each  winding  creek  in  grave  entrancement  lies 

A  rhapsody  of  morning-stars.     The  skies 

Shine  scant  with  one  forked  galaxy, — 

The  marsh  brags  ten :  looped  on  his  breast  they  lie.  85 

Oh,  what  if  a  sound  should  be  made ! 

Oh,  what  if  a  bound  should  be  laid 

To  this  bow-and-string  tension  of  beauty  and  silence- 

a-spring,— 
To  the  bend  of  beauty  the  bow,  or  the  hold  of  silence 

the  string! 

I  fear  me,  I  fear  me  yon  dome  of  diaphanous  gleam  90 
Will  break  as  a  bubble  o'erblown  in  a  dream, — 
Yon  dome  of  too-tenuous  tissues  of  space  and  of 

night, 

Overweighted  with  stars,  overfreighted  with  light, 
Oversated  with  beauty  and  silence,  will  seem 

But  a  bubble  that  broke  in  a  dream,      95 
If  a  bound  of  degree  to  this  grace  be  laid, 
Or  a  sound  or  a  motion  made. 
232 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


But    no:    it   is  made:    list!    somewhere, — mystery, 
where  ? 

In  the  leaves?  in  the  air? 

In  my  heart?  is  a  motion  made:  10° 

Tis  a  motion  of  dawn,  like  a  flicker  of  shade  on 

shade. 

In  the  leaves  'tis  palpable:  low  multitudinous  stir- 
ring 
Upwinds  through  the  woods;  the  little  ones,  softly 

conferring, 
Have  settled  my  lord's  to  be  looked  for;  so,  they  are 

still; 

But    the    air    and   my   heart   and   the   earth   are 
a-thrill,—  105 

And  look  where  the  wild  duck  sails  round  the  bend 
of  the  river, — 

And  look  where  a  passionate  shiver 
Expectant  is  bending  the  blades 
Of  the  marsh-grass  in  serial  shimmers  and  shades, — 
And  invisible  wings,  fast  fleeting,  fast  fleeting,      no 

Are  beating 
The  dark  overhead  as  my  heart  beats, — and  steady 

and  free 

Is  the  ebb-tide  flowing  from  marsh  to  sea — 
(Run  home,  little  streams, 
With  your  lapfuls  of  stars  and  dreams),  11B 
And  a  sailor  unseen  is  hoisting  a-peak, 
For  list,  down  the  inshore  curve  of  the  creek 
How  merrily  flutters  the  sail, — 
And  lo,  in  the  East!    Will  the  East  unveil? 
The  East  is  unveiled,  the  East  hath  confessed        12° 
A  flush :  'tis  dead ;  'tis  alive ;  'tis  dead,  ere  the  West 
Was  aware  of  it :  nay,  'tis  abiding,  'tis  withdrawn : 
Have  a  care,  sweet  Heaven !     'Tis  Dawn. 
283 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Now  a  dream  of  a  flame  through  that  dream  of  a 

flush  is  uprolled: 
To    the   zenith   ascending,   a    dome   of   undazzling 

gold  125 

Is  builded,  in  shape  as  a  beehive,  from  out  of  the  sea : 
The  hive  is  of  gold  undazzling,  but  oh,  the  Bee, 
The  star-fed  Bee,  the  build-fire  Bee, 
Of  dazzling  gold  is  the  great  Sun-Bee 
That  shall  flash  from  the  hive-hole  over  the  sea.    13° 
Yet  now  the  dewdrop,  now  the  morning  gray, 
Shall  live  their  little  lucid  sober  day 
Ere  with  the  sun  their  souls  exhale  away. 
Now  in  each  pettiest  personal  sphere  of  dew 
The  summ'd  morn  shines  complete  as  in  the  blue    135 
Big  dewdrop  of  all  heaven :  with  these  lit  shrines 
O'ersilvered  to  the  farthest  sea-confines, 
The  sacramental  marsh  one  pious  plain 
Of  worship  lies.     Peace  to  the  ante-reign 
Of  Mary  Morning,  blissful  mother  mild,  14° 

Minded  of  nought  but  peace,  and  of  a  child. 

Not  slower  than  Majesty  moves,  for  a  mean  and  a 
measure 

Of  motion, — not  faster  than  dateless  Olympian 
leisure 

Might  pace  with  unblown  ample  garments  from 
pleasure  to  pleasure, — 

The  wave-serrate  sea-rim  sinks  un  jar  ring,  unreel- 
ing, i« 

Forever  revealing,  revealing,  revealing, 

Edgewise,  bladewise,  half  wise,  wholewise, — 'tis  done ! 
Good-morrow,  lord  Sun! 

With  several  voice,  with  ascription  one, 

The  woods  and  the  marsh  and  the  sea  and  my  soul  15° 
234 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


Unto  thee,  whence  the  glittering  stream  of  all  mor- 
rows doth  roll, 

Cry  good  and  past-good  and  most  heavenly  morrow, 
lord  Sun. 

0  Artisan  born  in  the  purple, — Workman  Heat, — 
Barter  of  passionate  atoms  that  travail  to  meet 
And  be  mixed  in  the  death-cold  oneness, — innermost 

Guest  155 

At  the  marriage  of  elements, — fellow  of  publicans, — 

blest 

King  in  the  blouse  of  flame,  that  loiterest  o'er 
The  idle  skies,  yet  laborest  fast  evermore, — 
Thou  in  the  fine  forge-thunder,  thou,  in  the  beat 
Of   the   heart    of   a   man,   thou   Motive, — Laborer 

Heat:  16° 

Yea,  Artist,  thou,  of  whose  art  yon  sea's  all  news, 
With  his  inshore  greens  and  manifold  mid-sea  blues 
Pearl-glint,  shell-tint,  ancientest  perfectest  hues, 
Ever  shaming  the  maidens, — lily  and  rose 
Confess  thee,  and  each  mild  flame  that  glows         165 
In  the  clarified  virginal  bosoms  of  stones  that  shine, 
It  is  thine,  it  is  thine : 

Thou  chemist  of  storms,  whether  driving  the  winds 

a-swirl 

Or  a-flicker  the  subtiler  essences  polar  that  whirl 
In  the  magnet  earth, — yea,  thou  with  a  storm  for 

a  heart,  17° 

Rent  with  debate,  many-spotted  with  question,  part 
From  part  oft  sundered,  yet  ever  a  globed  light, 
Yet  ever  the  artist,  ever  more  large  and  bright 
Than  the  eye  of  a  man  may  avail  of: — manifold 

One, 

1  must  pass  from  thy  face,  I  must  pass  from  the  face 

of  the  Sun:  17B 

235 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Old  "Want  is  awake  and  agog,  every  wrinkle  a-f rown ; 
The  worker  must  pass  to  his  work  in  the  terrible 

town: 
But  I  fear  not,  nay,  and  I  fear  not  the  thing  to  be 

done; 

I  am  strong  with  the  strength  of  my  lord  the  Sun: 
How  dark,  how  dark  soever  the  race  that  must  needs 

be  run,  18° 

I  am  lit  with  the  Sun. 

Oh,  never  the  mast-high  run  of  the  seas 

Of  traffic  shall  hide  thee, 
Never  the  hell-colored  smoke  of  the  factories 

Hide  thee,  185 

Never  the  reek  of  the  time's  fen-politics 

Hide  thee, 
And  ever  my  heart  through  the  night  shall  with 

knowledge  abide  thee, 
And  ever  by  day  shall  my  spirit,  as  one  that  hath 

tried  thee, 

Labor,  at  leisure,  in  art, — till  yonder  beside  thee    19° 
My  soul  shall  float,  friend  Sun, 
The  day  being  done. 


THE   HARLEQUIN   OF  DREAMS 

Swift,  through  some  trap  mine  eyes  have  never  found, 
Dim-panelled  in  the  painted  scene  of  Sleep, 
Thou,  giant  Harlequin  of  Dreams,  dost  leap 
Upon  my  spirit's  stage.    Then  Sight  and  Sound, 
Then  Space  and  Time,  then  Language,  Mete  and 
Bound,  5 

And  all  familiar  Forms  that  firmly  keep 
Man's  reason  in  the  road,  change  faces,  peep 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


Betwixt  the  legs  and  mock  the  daily  round. 

Yet  thou  canst  more  than  mock :  sometimes  my  tears 
At  midnight  break  through  bounden  lids — a  sign  10 
Thou  hast  a  heart :  and  oft  thy  little  leaven 

Of  dream-taught  wisdom  works  me  bettered  years. 
In  one  night  witch,  saint,  trickster,  fool  divine, 
I  think  thou  ?rt  Jester  at  the  Court  of  Heaven ! 


A  BALLAD  OF  TREES  AND  THE  MASTER 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  went, 
Clean  forspent,  forspent. 
Into  the  woods  my  Master  came, 
Forspent  with  love  and  shame.  4 

But  the  olives  they  were  not  blind  to  Him; 
The  little  gray  leaves  were  kind  to  Him; 
The  thorn-tree  had  a  mind  to  Him 
When  into  the  woods  He  came. 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  went, 

And  He  was  well  content.  10 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  came, 

Content  with  death  and  shame. 

When  Death  and  Shame  would  woo  Him 

last, 

From  under  the  trees  they  drew  Him  last: 
'Twas  on  a  tree  they  slew  Him — last,         1B 
When  out  of  the  woods  He  came. 


237 


A   STUDY   IN    SOUTHERN   POETRY 


CORN" 

To-day  the  woods  are  trembling  through  and  through 
With  shimmering  forms  that  flash  before  my  view, 
Then  melt  in  green  as  dawn-stars  melt  in  blue. 
The  leaves  that  wave  against  my  cheek  caress 
Like  women's  hands;  the  embracing  boughs  ex- 
press 5 
A  subtlety  of  mighty  tenderness; 
The  copse-depths  into  little  noises  start, 
That  sound  anon  like  beatings  of  a  heart, 
Anon  like  talk  'twixt  lips  not  far  apart. 

The  beech  dreams  balm,  as  a  dreamer  hums  a 
song;  10 

Through  that  vague  wafture,  aspirations  strong 
Throb  from  young  hickories  breathing  deep  and 

long 

With  stress  and  urgence  bold  of  prisoned  spring 
And  ecstasy  of  burgeoning. 

Now,  since  the  dew-plashed  road  of  morn  is  dry, 15 
Forth  venture  odors  of  more  quality 
And  heavenlier  giving.     Like  Jove's  locks  awry, 
Long  muscadines 

Rich-wreathe  the  spacious  foreheads  of  great  pines, 
And  breathe  ambrosial  passions  from  their  vines.    20 
I  pray  with  mosses,  ferns  and  flowers  shy 
That  hide  like  gentle  nuns  from  human  eye 
To  lift  adoring  perfumes  to  the  sky. 
I  hear  faint  bridal-sighs  of  brown  and  green 
Dying  to  silent  hints  of  kisses  keen  25 

As  far  lights  fringe  into  a  pleasant  sheen. 
I  start  at  fragmentary  whispers,  blown 
From  under-talks  of  leafy  souls  unknown, 
Vague  purports  sweet,  of  inarticulate  tone. 
238 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


Dreaming  of  gods,  men,  nuns  and  brides,  between    30 
Old  companies  of  oaks  that  inward  lean 
To  join  their  radiant  amplitudes  of  green 

I  slowly  move,  with  ranging  looks  that  pass 

Up  from  the  matted  miracles  of  grass 
Into  yon  veined  and  complex  space  35 

Where  sky  and  leafage  interlace 

So  close,  the  heaven  of  blue  is  seen 

Inwoven  with  a  heaven  of  green. 

I  wander  to  the  zigzag-cornered  fence 

Where  sassafras,  intrenched  in  brambles  dense,        40 

Contests  with  stolid  vehemence 
The  march  of  culture,  setting  limb  and  thorn 
As  pikes  against  the  army  of  the  com. 

There,  while  I  pause,  my  fieldward-faring  eyes 
Take  harvests,  where  the  stately  corn-ranks  rise,      45 

Of  inward  dignities 
And  large  benignities  and  insights  wise, 

Graces  and  modest  majesties. 
Thus,  without  theft,  I  reap  another's  field; 
Thus,  without  tilth,  I  house  a  wondrous  yield,        60 
And  heap  my  heart  with  quintuple  crops  concealed. 

Look,  out  of  line  one  tall  corn-captain  stands 

Advanced  beyond  the  foremost  of  his  bands, 
And  waves  his  blades  upon  the  very  edge 
And  hottest  thicket  of  the  battling  hedge.  55 

Thou  lustrous  stalk,  that  ne'er  mayst  walk  nor  talk, 
Still  shalt  thou  type  the  poet-soul  sublime 
That  leads  the  vanward  of  his  timid  time 
And  sings  up  cowards  with  commanding  rhyme — 

Soul  calm,  like  thee,  yet  fain,  like  thee,  to  grow      60 

By  double  increment,  above,  below; 

239 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Soul  homely,  as  thou  art,  yet  rich  in  grace  like 

thee, 

Teaching  the  yeomen  selfless  chivalry 
That  moves  in  gentle  curves  of  courtesy; 
Soul  filled  like  thy  long  veins  with  sweetness  tense,  65 

By  every  godlike  sense 
Transmuted  from  the  four  wild  elements. 

Drawn  to  high  plans, 

Thou  lift'st  more  stature  than  a  mortal  man's, 
Yet  ever  piercest  downward  in  the  mould  70 

And  keepest  hold 
Upon  the  reverend  and  steadfast  earth 

That  gave  thee  birth; 
Yea,  standest  smiling  in  thy  future  grave, 

Serene  and  brave,  75 

With  unremitting  breath 
Inhaling  life  from  death, 
Thine  epitaph  writ  fair  in  fruitage  eloquent, 
Thyself  thy  monument. 

As  poets  should,  80 

Thou  hast  built  up  thy  hardihood 
With  universal  food, 

Drawn  in  select  proportion  fair 
From  honest  mould  and  vagabond  air; 
From  darkness  of  the  dreadful  night,  w 

And  joyful  light; 

From  antique  ashes,  whose  departed  flame 
In  thee  has  finer  life  and  longer  fame; 
From  wounds  and  balms, 

From  storms  and  calms,  90 

From  potsherds  and  dry  bones 

And  ruin-stones. 

Into  thy  vigorous  substance  thou  hast  wrought 
Whatever  the  hand  of  Circumstance  hath  brought; 
240 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


Yea,  into  cool  solacing  green  hast  spun  95 

White  radiance  hot  from  out  the  sun. 
So  thou  dost  mutually  leaven 
Strength  of  earth  with  grace  of  heaven; 
So  thou  dost  marry  new  and  old 
Into  a  one  of  higher  mould ;  10° 

So  thou  dost  reconcile  the  hot  and  cold 

The  dark  and  bright, 
And  many  a  heart-perplexing  opposite, 

And  so, 

Akin  by  blood  too  high  and  low,  105 

Fitly  thou  playest  out  thy  poet's  part, 
Eichly  expanding  thy  much-bruised  heart 
In  equal  care  to  nourish  lord  in  hall 

Or  beast  in  stall: 

Thou  took'st  from  all  that  thou  mightst  give  to 
all.  no 

0  steadfast  dweller  on  the  selfsame  spot 
Where  thou  wast  born,  that  still  repinest  not — 
Type  of  the  home-fond  heart,  the  happy  lot ! — 

Deeply  thy  mild  content  rebukes  the  land 

Whose  flimsy  homes,  built  on  the  shifting  sands  115 
Of  trade,  for  ever  rise  and  fall 
With  alternation  whimsical, 

Enduring  scarce  a  day, 

Then  swept  away 

By  swift  engulfments  of  incalculable  tides          m 
Whereon  capricious  Commerce  rides. 
Look,  thou  substantial  spirit  of  content! 
Across  this  little  vale,  thy  continent, 

To  where,  beyond  the  mouldering  mill 

Yon  old  deserted  Georgian  hill  125 

Bears  to  the  sun  his  piteous  aged  crest 
And  seamy  breast, 

241 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

By  restless-hearted  children  left  to  lie 

Untended  there  beneath  the  heedless  sky, 

As  barbarous  folk  expose  their  old  to  die.  13° 

Upon  that  generous-rounding  side, 

With  gullies  scarified 
Where  keen  Neglect  his  lash  has  plied, 

Dwelt  one  I  knew  of  old,  who  played  at  toil, 

And  gave  to  coquette  Cotton  soul  and  soil.  135 

Scorning  the  slow  reward  of  patient  grain, 
He  sowed  his  heart  with  hopes  of  swifter  gain, 
Then  sat  him  down  and  waited  for  the  rain. 

He  sailed  in  borrowed  ships  of  usury — 

A  foolish  Jason  on  a  treacherous  sea,  14° 

Seeking  the  Fleece  and.  finding  misery. 
Lulled  by  smooth-rippling  loans,  in  idle  trance 
He  lay,  content  that  unthrift  Circumstance 
Should  plough  for  him  the  stony  field  of  Chance. 

Yea,  gathering  crops  whose  worth  no  man  might 
tell,  145 

He  staked  his  life  on  games  of  Buy-and-Sell, 

And  turned  each  field  into  a  gambler's  hell. 
Aye,  as  each  year  began, 
My  farmer  to  the  neighboring  city  ran; 

Passed  with  a  mournful  anxious  face  15° 

Into  the  banker's  inner  place; 

Parleyed,  excused,  pleaded  for  longer  grace; 

Railed  at  the  drouth,  the  worm,  the  rust,  the  grass ; 
Protested  ne'er  again  'twould  come  to  pass; 
With  many  an  oh  and  if  and  but  alas  155 

Parried  or  swallowed  searching  questions  rude, 

And  kissed  the  dust  to  soften  Dives's  mood. 

At  last,  small  loans  by  pledges  great  renewed, 
He  issues  smiling  from  the  fatal  door, 
And  buys  with  lavish  hand  his  yearly  store        16° 
Till  his  small  borrowings  will  yield  no  more. 
242 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


Aye,  as  each  year  declined, 

With  bitter  heart  and  ever  brooding  mind 

He  mourned  his  fate  unkind. 
Jn  dust,  in  rain,  with  might  and  main,  165 

He  nursed  his  cotton,  cursed  his  grain, 
Fretted  for  news  that  made  him  fret  again, 

Snatched  at  each  telegram  of  Future  Sale, 

And  thrilled  with  Bulls'  or  Bears'  alternate  wail — 

In  hope  or  fear  alike  for  ever  pale.  17° 

And  thus  from  year  to  year,  through  hope  and  fear, 
With  many  a  curse  and  many  a  secret  tear, 
Striving  in  vain  his  cloud  of  debt  to  clear, 
At  last 

He  woke  to  find  his  foolish  dreaming  past,  175 

And  all  his  best-of-life  the  easy  prey 
Of  squandering  scamps  and  quacks  that  lined  his 

way 
With  vile  array, 

From  rascal  statesman  down  to  petty  knave; 

Himself,  at  best,  for  all  his  bragging  brave,  18° 

A  gamester's  catspaw  and  a  banker's  slave. 
Then,  worn  and  gray,  and  sick  with  deep  unrest, 
He  fled  away  into  the  oblivious  West, 
Unmourned,  unblest. 

Old  hill !  old  hill !  thou  gashed  and  hairy  Lear      185 
Whom  the  divine  Cordelia  of  the  year, 
E'en  pitying  Spring,  will  vainly  strive  to  cheer — 
King,  that  no  subject  man  or  beast  may  own, 
Discrowned,  undaughtered  and  alone — 
Yet  shall  the  great  God  turn  thy  fate,  19° 

And  bring  thee  back  into  thy  monarch  state 
And  majesty  immaculate. 

Lo,  through  hot  waverings  of  the  August  morn, 
Thou  givest  from  thy  vasty  sides  forlorn 
243 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Visions  of  golden  treasuries  of  corn —  195 

Ripe  largesse  lingering  for  some  bolder  heart 
That  manfully  shall  take  thy  part, 
And  tend  thee, 

And  defend  thee  20° 

With  antique  sinew  and  with  modern  art. 

EVENING  SONG.  This  beautiful  song  appeared 
first  in  Lippincott's  Magazine.  The  publishers  of 
this  periodical  were  among  the  very  first  to  recognize 
the  genius  of  Lanier.  Is  there  any  irregularity  in 
stanza  structure?  It  is  an  especially  pleasing  love- 
lyric,  and  has  been  set  to  music  by  Dudley  Buck. 

THE  CRYSTAL.  This  noble  poem  appeared  in  the 
New  York  Independent,  as  did  also  "  The  Ballad  of 
Trees "  and  "  Sunrise."  The  Independent  was  an- 
other paper  that  gave  the  struggling  poet  earliest 
encouragement. 

This  selection  shows  the  author's  keen  critical 
powers  and  is  informed  by  the  spirit  of  scholarship. 
He  has  pointed  unerringly  to  the  defects  of  the  great 
characters  named.  1.  When  death  and  truth  unlock 
their  secrets.  1-12.  The  poem  never  rises  above  the 
plane  of  this  introduction.  29-39.  Justify  the  criti- 
cisms of  Shakspere.  42.  "  Of  prose  and  catalogue  " : 
refers  to  the  Iliad,  Book  II.  — 

"My  song  to  fame  shall  give 
The  chieftains  and  enumerate  their  ships." 

45.  "  Light-o'-love " :  Helen,  carried  away  by  Paris. 
The  Trojan  War  resulted,  which  furnished  the  theme 
for  the  Iliad.  48.  "  Thy  year-worn  cloak."  Socra- 
tes, the  Athenian  philosopher,  said :  "  To  want  noth- 
ing is  divine ;  to  want  as  little  as  possible  is  the  near- 
est possible  approach  to  the  divine  life."  This  belief 
244 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


controlled  his  mode  of  living.  His  meat  and  drink 
were  of  the  poorest;  summer  and  winter  his  coat  was 
the  eame.  49.  His  iron  stringencies  were  at  the 
other  extreme  from  the  dandy's  excessive  indul- 
gences. 51.  "Buddha":  the  founder  of  the  Bud- 
dhist religion,  tenets  of  which  are  explained  in  the 
succeeding  lines.  51.  "Dante":  the  great  Italian 
poet.  Pursue  the  study  on  this  line.  The  criticisms 
are  very  felicitous;  as,  for  instance,  that  on  Milton, 
or  on  Emerson,  or  on  Tennyson.  The  close  reveals 
the  poet's  attitude  toward  Christ. 

SUNRISE.  The  editor  of  the  Independent,  the  pa- 
per from  which  this  is  taken,  says  of  it:  "This 
poem,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  is  one  of  the  few 
great  poems  that  have  been  written  on  this  side  of 
the  ocean."  It  is  said  upon  authority  that  the  lines 
were  written  when  the  author  was  in  his  last  illness, 
with  a  fever  of  104  degrees.  It  is  melodious  and 
emotional, — almost,  if  not  quite,  rhapsodical.  All 
kinds  of  feet  are  used,  but  the  effect  is  anapestic; 
hence,  it  affords  an  excellent  study  in  scansion. 

17.  "Gospeling  glooms":  shades  that  provoke 
holy  feelings.  19.  Observe  here  and  elsewhere  the 
poet's  Wordsworthian  view  of  Nature.  29.  Just 
what  influenced  the  author  to  give  a  line  to  this  brief 
word  here  and  again  below,  is  difficult  to  understand. 
58-85.  This  is  great  thought;  search  its  full  import. 
86,  87.  What  liberty  in  rhyme?  See,  also,  the 
"  Symphony,"  by  this  writer : 

"We  weave  in  the  mills  and  heave  in  the  kilns, 
We  sieve  mine-meshes  under  the  hills, 
And  thieve  much  gold  from  the  Devil's  bank  tills, 
To  relieve,"  etc. 

102.  "Multitudinous":  effect  of  this  word?  114, 
115.  It  is  rather  a  tax  upon  the  average  reader  to 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

share  the  poet's  rapture  here  and  in  the  "  beehive " 
figure  further  on.  The  poet's  Pegasus  sometimes 
takes  the  bit  in  his  teeth.  153-181.  Another  supreme 
passage,  well  worthy  close  study.  182-192.  A  ca- 
dence according  with  the  vast  harmonies  of  the 
poem. 

A  BALLAD  or  TREES.  Fine  proportion,  careful 
versification,  and  exact  diction  make  this  poem  re- 
memberable.  What  occasion  in  Christ's  career  is 
referred  to?  4.  Meaning  of  the  line?  5,  6,  7. 
Kind  of  rhymes?  Point  out  others.  7.  Interpret 
the  line.  12.  Contrast  with  4,  and  explain.  15. 
"Last.  They  had  slain  Him  before";  how?  Give 
the  thought  in  a  few  words. 

CORN.  This  poem  is  not  of  uniform  excellence. 
Parts  of  it  are  very  imaginative;  80-110,  for  in- 
stance; others,  brilliantly  figurative.  185-192,  and 
yet  others,  —  well,  characterize  134-184.  50. 
"Tilth":  meaning?  60.  "Fain":  a  favorite  word 
with  the  poet.  130.  What  people  did  this?  133. 
"Neglect":  a  fine  figure.  41.  "Fleece":  what  al- 
lusion? 146.  Meaning?  Explain  other  terms  of 
the  mart  in  68,  69,  etc.  96.  "  Largesse  " :  define. 


246 


James  Maurice  Thompson 

1844-1901 

Mr.  Thompson  was  a  native  of  Indiana,  but  his 
parents  were  Southerners  and  returned  to  the  South, 
first  to  Kentucky,  then  to  Georgia,  where  the  son 
was  reared  and  educated.  He  served  in  the  Con- 
federate Army,  and  at  the  close  of  the  war  estab- 
lished himself  in  law  at  Crawfordsville,  Ind.  He 
was  elected  to  the  legislature  of  that  State,  and  was 
later  appointed  State  Geologist. 

He  was  a  versatile  writer,  of  poems,  critiques, 
essays,  novels,  sketches  of  out-door  life,  etc.  At  one 
time  he  was  connected  editorially  with  the  New  York 
Independent. 

Among  his  books  are  "  Hoosier  Mosaics,"  "  A 
Tallahassee  Girl,"  "  Songs  of  Fair  Weather,"  "  By- 
Ways  and  Bird-Notes,"  "  Sylvan  Secrets  in  Bird- 
Songs  and  Brooks,"  "The  Story  of  Louisiana," 
"  Poems,"  "  The  Ocala  Boy,"  "  At  Love's  Extremes," 
"The  Witchery  of  Archery,"  "A  Fortnight  of 
Folly,"  and  "Alice  of  Old  Vincennes,"— the  last 
published  about  the  time  of  his  death. 

SOLACE 

Thou  art  the  last  rose  of  the  year, 
By  gusty  breezes  rudely  fanned : 

The  dying  Summer  holds  thee  fast 
In  the  hot  hollow  of  her  hand. 
247 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Thy  face  pales,  as  if  looking  back  • 

Into  the  splendor  of  thy  past 
Had  thrilled  thee  strangely,  knowing  that 

This  one  long  look  must  be  the  last. 

Thine  essence,  that  was  heavenly  sweet, 
Has  flown  upon  the  tricksy  air:  *• 

Fate's  hand  is  on  thee;  drop  thy  leaves, 
And  go  among  the  things  that  were. 

Be  must  and  mould,  be  trampled  dust, 
Be  nothing  that  is  fair  to  see : 

One  day,  at  least,  of  glorious  life  15 

Was  thine  of  all  eternity. 

Be  this  a  comfort :  crown  and  lyre 
And  regal  purple  last  not  long; 

Kings  fall  like  leaves,  but  thy  perfume 
Strays  through  the  years  like  royal  song.  20 

IN   EXILE 


The  singing  streams,  and  deep,  dark  wood 
Beloved  of  old  by  Robin  Hood, 

Lift  me  a  voice,  kiss  me  a  hand, 
To  call  me  from  this  younger  land. 

What  time  by  dull  Floridian  lakes, 
What  time  by  rivers  fringed  with  brakes, 

I  blow  the  reed,  and  draw  the  bow, 
And  see  my  arrows  hurtling  go. 
248 


JAMES   MAURICE    THOMPSON 

Well  sent  to  deer  or  wary  hare, 

Or  wildfowl  whistling  down  the  air;  10 

What  time  I  lie  in  shady  spots 
On  beds  of  wild  forget-me-nots, 

That  fringe  the  fen  lands  insincere 
And  boggy  marges  of  the  mere, 

Whereon  I  see  the  heron  stand,  15 

Knee-deep  in  sable  slush  of  sand, — 

I  think  how  sweet  if  friends  should  come 
And  tell  me  England  calls  me  home. 

II 

I  keep  good  heart  and  bide  my  time, 

And  blow  the  bubbles  of  my  rhyme;  20 

I  wait  and  watch,  for  soon  I  know 
In  Sherwood  merry  horns  shall  blow, 

And  blow  and  blow,  and  folks  shall  come 
And  tell  me  England  calls  me  home. 

Mother  of  archers,  then  I  go  25 

Wind-blown  to  you  with  bended  bow, 

To  stand  close  up  by  you  and  ask 
That  it  be  my  appointed  task 

To  sing  in  leal  and  loyal  lays 

Your  matchless  bowmen's  meed  of  praise; 

80 

249 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 


And  that  unchallenged  I  may  go 
Through  your  green  woods  with  bended 
bow, — 

Your  woods  where  bowered  and  hidden 

stood 
Of  old  the  home  of  Robin  Hood. 

Ah,  this  were  sweet,  and  it  will  come        35 
When  merry  England  calls  me  home. 

Ill 

Perchance,  long  hence,  it  may  befall, 
Or  soon,  mayhap,  or  not  at  all, 

That  all  my  songs  now  hither  sent, 

And  all  my  shafts  at  random  spent,          40 

Will  find  their  way  to  those  who  love 
The  simple  force  and  truth  thereof; 

Wherefore  my  name  shall  then  be  rung 
Across  the  land  from  tongue  to  tongue, 

Till  some  who  hear  shall  haste  to  come       45 
With  news  that  England  calls  me  home. 

I  walk  where  spiced  winds  raff  the  blades 
Of  sedge-grass  on  the  summer  glades; 

Through  purfled  blades  that  fringe  the  mere 
I  watch  the  timid  tawny  deer  50 

250 


JAMES   MAURICE    THOMPSON 

Set  its  quick  feet  and  quake  and  spring, 
As  if  it  heard  some  deadly  thing, 

When  but  a  brown  snipe  flutters  by 
With  rustling  wing  and  piping  cry; 

I  stand  in  some  dim  place  at  dawn,  55 

And  see  across  a  forest  lawn 

The  tall  wild  turkeys  swiftly  pass 
Light-footed  through  the  dewy  grass; 

I  shout,  and  wind  my  horn,  and  go 
The  whole  morn  through  with  bended 

bow,  60 

Then  on  my  rest  I  feel  at  noon 
Sown  pulvil  of  the  blooms  of  June; 

I  live  and  keep  no  count  of  time, 
I  blow  the  bubbles  of  my  rhyme: 

These  are  my  joys  till  friends  shall  come  ^ 
And  tell  me  England  calls  me  home. 

IV 

The  self -yew  bow  was  England's  boast; 
She  leaned  upon  her  archer  host, — - 

It  was  her  very  life-support 

At  Cre"cy  and  at  Agincourt,  70 

At  Flodden  and  at  Halidon  Hill, 
And  fields  of  glory  redder  still ! 
251 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

0  bows  that  rang  at  Solway  Moss  ! 
0  yeomanry  of  Neville's  Cross  ! 

These  were  your  victories,  for  by  you          75 
Breastplate  and  shield  were  cloven  through; 

And  mailed  knights  at  every  joint, 
Sore  wounded  by  an  arrow  point, 

Drew  rein,  turned  pale,  reeled  in  the  sell,  79 
And,  bristled  with  arrows,  gasped  and  fell  ! 

0  barbed  points  that  scratched  the  name 
Of  England  on  the  walls  of  fame  ! 

0  music  of  the  ringing  cords 

Set  to  grand  song  of  deeds,  not  words  ! 

0  yeoman!  for  your  memory's  sake,  85 

These  bubbles  of  my  rhyme  I  make,  — 

Not  rhymes  of  conquest  stern  and  sad, 
Or  hoarse-voiced  like  the  Iliad, 

But  soft  and  dreamful  as  the  sigh 

Of  this  sweet  wind  that  washes  by,  —          90 

The  while  I  wait  for  friends  to  come 
And  tell  me  England  calls  me  home. 


I  wait  and  wait  ;  it  would  be  sweet 
To  feel  the  sea  beneath  my  feet, 
252 


JAMES    MAURICE    THOMPSON 

And  hear  the  breeze  sing  in  the  shrouds     95 
Betwixt  me  and  the  white-winged  clouds, — 

To  feel  and  know  my  heart  should  soon 
Have  its  desire,  its  one  sweet  boon, 

To  look  out  on  the  foam-sprent  waste 
Through  which  my  vessel's  keel  would 

haste,  M0 

Till  on  the  far  horizon  dim 

A  low  white  line  would  shine  and  swim; 

The  low  white  line;  the  gleaming  strand, 
The  pale  cliffs  of  the  Mother-land ! 

0  God !  the  very  thought  is  bliss,  106 
The  burden  of  my  song  it  is, 

Till  over  sea  song-blown  shall  come 
The  news  that  England  calls  me  home ! 

VI 

Ah,  call  me,  England,  some  sweet  day 

Ere  these  brown  locks  are  silver  gray,          no 

And  these  brown  arms  are  shrunken  small, 
Unfit  for  deeds  of  strength  at  all; 

When  the  swift  deer  shall  pass  me  by, 
Whilst  all  unstrung  my  bow  shall  lie, 

And  birds  shall  taunt  me  with  the  time      116 

1  wasted  making  foolish  rhyme, 

253 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

And  wasted  blowing  in  a  reed 

The  runes  of  praise,  the  yeoman's  meed, 

And  wasted  dreaming  foolish  dreams 

Of  English  woods  and  English  streams,    12° 

Of  grassy  glade  and  queachy  fen 
Beloved  of  old  by  archer  men, 

And  of  the  friends  who  would  not  come 
To  tell  me  England  called  me  home. 

VII 

Such  words  are  sad :  blow  them  away         125 
And  lose  them  in  the  leaves  of  May, 

0  wind !  and  leave  them  there  to  rot, 
Like  random  arrows  lost  when  shot; 

And  Here,  these  better  thoughts,  take  these 
And  blow  them  far  across  the  seas,  13° 

To  that  old  land  and  that  old  wood 
Which  hold  the  dust  of  Eobin  Hood ! 

Say  this,  low-speaking  in  my  place : 

"  The  last  of  all  the  archer  race  "4 

"  Sends  this  his  sheaf  of  rhymes  to  those 
Whose  fathers  bent  the  self -yew  bows, 

"  And  made  the  cloth-yard  arrows  ring 
For  merry  England  and  her  king; 
254 


JAMES   MAURICE    THOMPSON 

"  Wherever  Lion  Kichard  set 

His  fortune's  stormy  banneret !  "  14° 

Say  this,  and  then,  oh,  haste  to  come 
And  tell  me  England  calls  me  home ! 

THE   ASSAULT 

Amazilia    cerviniventris 

A  winged  rocket  curving  through 

An  amethyst  trajectory, 
Blew  up  the  magazines  of  dew 

Within  the  fortress  of  the  bee. 

Some  say  the  tulip  mortar  sent  5 

The  missile  forth;  I  do  not  know; 

I  scarcely  saw  which  way  it  went, 
Its  whisk  of  flame  surprised  me  so. 

I  heard  the  sudden  hum  and  boom 

And  saw  the  arc  of  purple  light  10 

Across  the  garden's  rosy  gloom; 

Then  something  glorious  blurred  my 
sight ! 

The  bees  forgot  to  sound  alarm, 

And  did  not  pause  their  gates  to  lock; 

A  topaz  terror  took  by  storm  w 

The  tower  of  the  hollyhock. 

Above  the  rose  a  halo  hung, 

As  if  a  bomb  had  been  a  gem, 
And  round  the  dahlias's  head  was  swung 

A  blade  that  looked  a  diadem.  20 

255 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

What  more  befell  I  cannot  say; 

By  ruby  glint  and  emerald  gleam 
My  sense  was  dazed;  the  garden  lay 

Around  me  like  an  opal  dream ! 


THE   TULIP 

Caveat  Regina 

Seeing,  above  dark  spikes  of  green, 

Your  great  bold  flowers  of  gold  and  red, 

I  think  of  some  young  heathen  queen 
With  blazing  crown  upon  her  head. 

Some  beautiful  barbaric  thing,  5 

Clothed  in  rich  garments  emerald  zoned, 

Whom  simple  folk,  half  worshipping 
And  half  in  fear,  have  crowned  and 
throned. 

You  will  not  deign  to  give  the  breeze       10 

The  slightest  nod  as  it  goes  by; 
You  will  not  move  a  leaf  to  please 
The  drowsy  gorgeous  butterfly. 

With  measureless  nonchalance  and  pride, 
You  take  the  humming  bird's  caress ; 

The  brown  melodious  bee  must  bide  15 

Your  haughty,  arrogant  wilfulness! 

You  will  not  even  stoop  to  hear 
The  whisper  of  the  adoring  grass; 

The  violets  droop  their  heads  in  fear, 

The  beetles  grumble  as  they  pass.  20 

256 


JAMES    MAURICE    THOMPSON 

Beware,  0  queen,  some  day  ere  long 
All  these  may  drop  their  fealty, 

And  for  redress  of  causeless  wrong 
Uprise  in  passionate  mutiny. 

Ah,  then  what  rapturous  sound  of  wings,  25 
Applauding  when  your  throne  goes 

down! 
What  cheering  when  the  rude  breeze 

springs, 
And  whisks  away  your  withered  crown ! 

SOLACE.  A  reflective  lyric.  Wherein  exists  the 
solace?  10.  "Tricksy":  define. 

IN  EXILE.  Read  through  and  explain  whence  the 
subject.  The  poem  is  written  in  couplets.  What  is  its 
measure?  Its  character?  The  author  was  an  ex- 
pert archer.  What  evidences  of  a  love  for  out-door 
sports  are  shown  in  this  ?  "  England  calls  me  home," 
a  refrain  at  the  close  of  each  section;  what  is  the 
thought  ?  Explain  proper  names  in  2,  70,  71,  72,  73. 

THE  ASSAULT.  The  poem  glows  with  imagination. 
Amazilia  cerviniventris  is  a  species  of  the  humming- 
bird. 2.  "  Trajectory  " :  the  arc  described  by  a  body 
thrown  upward  obliquely  into  the  air.  Dwell  upon 
the  vivid  imagery  in  3,  4,  5,  10,  15,  16,  20,  24. 

THE  TULIP.  What  is  the  exact  theme  ?  Compare 
this  with  the  foregoing.  Did  the  same  mood  inspire 
them?  Did  the  same  feeling  toward  flowers,  birds, 
etc.,  inspire  them?  Wherein  do  they  differ? 


257 


John  Henry  Boner 

1845-1903 

Mr.  Boner  was  born  in  the  old  Moravian  town, 
Salem,  N.  C.  He  received  his  early  training  in  the 
schools  there  and  began  a  bread-winner's  life  when  he 
was  yet  a  boy — first  as  a  printer,  work  he  was  con- 
nected with  more  or  less  closely  until  his  death.  He 
edited  papers  in  his  native  town  and  in  Asheville, 
N.  C.  He  was  chief  clerk  of  the  North  Carolina' 
House  of  Bepresentatives,  1869-70,  and  two  years 
later  went  into  the  Civil  Service,  at  Washington, 
D.  C.,  where  he  remained  for  sixteen  years.  He  then 
removed  to  New  York,  and  was  successively  on  the 
staffs  of  the  Century  Dictionary,  the  New  York 
World,  the  Literary  Digest,  and  "A  Library  of 
American  Literature." 

Declining  health  forced  him  to  give  up  this  work 
and  seek  restoration  among  his  friends  in  his  native 
State.  A  winter  was  spent  in  Kaleigh,  with  tem- 
porary relief;  but  soon  after  his  return  to  the  Gov- 
ernment Printing  Office,  Washington,  he  suddenly 
died  of  hemorrhage,  March  6,  1903.  The  Authors 
Club  of  New  York,  of  which  he  was  a  member,  as- 
sisted in  doing  honor  to  his  memory.  He  was  buried 
in  the  Congressional  Cemetery,  Washington,  but 
his  remains  were  removed  to  Salem,  N.  C.,  and  were 
reinterred  with  impressive  ceremonies.  Dr.  Marcus 
Benjamin,  of  Washington,  D.  C.,  led  the  movement, 
and  prepared  a  fitting  memorial  to  the  dead  poet. 

Boner  published  "Whispering  Pines"  in  1883, 
258 


JOHN    HENRY    BONER 


and  "  Some  New  Poems  "  in  1901.  Just  before  his 
death  he  prepared  a  collection  of  such  of  his  works 
as  he  wished  to  have  survive.  This  book,  "  Boner's 
Lyrics,"  has  been  issued  by  his  wife,  through  the 
Neale  Publishing  Company,  of  New  York. 

THE  LIGHT'OOD   FIEE 

IWhen  wintry  days  are  dark  and  drear 
And  all  the  forest  ways  grow  still, 
When  gray,  snow-laden  clouds  appear 

Along  the  bleak  horizon  hill, 
When  cattle  all  are  snugly  penned  6 

And  sheep  go  huddling  close  together, 
When  steady  streams  of  smoke  ascend 

From  farm-house  chimneys — in  such  weather 
Give  me  old  Carolina's  own, 
A  great  log-house,  a  great  hearth-stone,      10 
A  cheering  pipe,  of  cob  or  briar, 
And  a  red,  leaping  light'ood  fire. 

When  dreary  day  draws  to  a  close 
And  all  the  silent  land  is  dark, 
When  Boreas  down  the  chimney  blows  15 

And  sparks  fly  from  the  crackling  bark, 
'When  limbs  are  bent  with  snow  or  sleet 

And  owls  hoot  from  the  hollow  tree, 
With  hounds  asleep  about  your  feet, 
Then  is  the  time  for  reverie. 
Give  me  old  Carolina's  own, 
A  hospitable,  wide  hearth-stone, 
A  cheering  pipe,  of  cob  or  briar, 
And  a  red,  rousing  light'ood  fire. 


259 


A   STUDY   IN    SOUTHERN   POETRY 

CEISMUS  TIMES  IS   COME 

I 

Wen  de  sheppuds  watch  de  sheep  on  de  plain  of 

Beflehem 

(Crismus  times  is  come,) 
Dey  was  'stonished  at  de  star  dat  went  a-swinging 

ober  dem, 

(Crismus  times  is  come;) 

Dey  lean  upon  de  sheppud  crooks  a-shadin'  ob  der 
eyes,  5 

(Crismus  times  is  come,) 
An'  dey  know  de  sun  of  glory  was  a-gwine  fur  to  rise, 

(Crismus  times  is  come,) 
De  wise  men  walk  wid  der  heads  ben'  low 
Twell  dey  hear  a  ban'  o'  music  like  dey  nebber  hear 
befo'  *> 

An'  de  angels  come  a-singin'  wid  de  stars  in  der 

han's 

An'  der  flamin'  wings  a-shinin'  on  de  heathun 
lan's 

II 

De  kings  ob  de  erf  woke  up  dat  night, 

(Crismus  times  is  come,) 
An'  der  crowns  look  shabby  in  de  hallyluyer  light.  15 

(Crismus  times  is  come,) 
But  de  po'  man  riz  en  tuck  his  ole  hat  down, 

(Crismus  times  is  come,) 
An'  hit  look  so  fine  dat  he  fought  it  were  a  crown, 

(Crismus  times  is  come,)  20 

Ole  Jordan  roll  high  en  ole  Jordan  roll  low, 
An'  de  star  stood  still  whar  de  folks  had  to  go, 
260 


JOHN   HENRY   BONER 


An?  de  angels  flew  away  agin  a-leavin'  arter  dem 
A  blaze  road  from  Juda  to  de  new  Jerusalem. 


Ill 

Den  pile  on  de  light'ood  en  set  aroun'  de  fire,  25 

(Crismus  times  is  come,) 
Eosum  up  de  ole  bow  en  chune  the  banjer  higher, 

(Crismus  times  is  come,) 
Dere's  no  mo'  coonin'  ob  de  log  in  de  night, 

(Crismus  times  is  come,) 
0  glory  to  de  Lam'  fur  de  hallyluyer  light, 

(Crismus  times  is  come,) 
De   Crismus  possum  am  a-bakin'   mighty 

snug, 
So  han'  aroun'  de  tumbler  en  de  little  yal- 

ler  jug 
Wid  de  co'ncob  stopper,  en  de  honey  in  de 

bowl,  ** 

An'  a-glory  hallyluyer  en  a-bless  yo'  soul. 


POE'S   COTTAGE  AT  FORDHAM 

Here  lived  the  soul  enchanted 

By  melody  of  song; 
Here  dwelt  the  spirit  haunted 

By  a  demoniac  throng; 
Here  sang  the  lips  elated; 
Here  grief  and  death  were  sated; 
Here  loved  and  here  unmated 

Was  he,  so  frail,  so  strong. 
261 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Here  wintry  winds  and  cheerless 

The  dying  firelight  blew  10 

While  he  whose  song  was  peerless 

Dreamed  the  drear  midnight  through, 

And  from  dull  embers  chilling 

Crept  shadows  darkly  filling 

The  silent  place,  and  thrilling  15 

His  fancy  as  they  grew. 

Here,  with  brow  bared  to  heaven, 

In  starry  night  he  stood, 
With  the  lost  star  of  seven 

Feeling  sad  brotherhood.  20 

Here  in  the  sobbing  showers 
Of  dark  autumnal  hours 
He  heard  suspected  powers 

Shriek  through  the  stormy  wood. 

From  visions  of  Apollo  25 

And  of  Astarte's  bliss, 
He  gazed  into  the  hollow 

And  hopeless  vale  of  Dis; 
And  though  earth  were  surrounded 
By  heaven,  it  still  was  mounded  30 

With  graves.    His  soul  had  sounded 

The  dolorous  abyss. 

Proud,  mad,  but  not  defiant, 
He  touched  at  heaven  and  hell. 

Fate  found  a  rare  soul  pliant  35 

And  rung  her  changes  well. 

Alternately  his  lyre, 

Stranded  with  strings  of  fire, 

Led  earth's  most  happy  choir 

Or  flashed  with  Israfel.  40 

262 


JOHN   HENRY   BONER 


No  singer  of  old  story 

Luting   accustomed   lays, 
No  harper  for  new  glory, 

No  mendicant  for  praise, 
He  struck  high  chords  and  splendid,         45 
Wherein  were  fiercely  blended 
Tones  that  unfinished  ended 

With  his  unfinished  days. 

Here  through  this  lowly  portal, 

Made  sacred  by  his  name,  50 

Unheralded  immortal 

The  mortal  went  and  came. 

And  fate  that  then  denied  him, 

And  envy  that  decried  him, 

And  malice  that  belied  him,  55 

Have  cenotaphed  his  fame. 


REMEMBRANCE 

I  think  that  we  retain  of  our  dead  friends 
And  absent  ones  no  general  portraiture; 
That  perfect  memory  does  not  long  endure, 
But  fades  and  fades  until  our  own  life  ends. 

Unconsciously,  forgetfulness  attends  5 

That  grief  for  which  there  is  no  other  cure, 
But  leaves  of  each  lost  one  some  record  sure — 

A  look,  an  act,  a  tone — something  that  lends 

Relief  and  consolation,  not  regret. 

Even  that  poor  mother  mourning  her  dead  child  10 

Whose  agonizing  eyes  with  tears  are  wet, 

Whose  bleeding  heart  can  not  be  reconciled, 

Unto  the  grave's  embrace — even  she  shall  yet 
Remember  only  when  her  babe  first  smiled ! 
263 


A    STUDY   IN    SOUTHERN   POETRY 


"TIME  BRINGS   ROSES" 

When  from  my  mountain-top  of  years  I  gaze 
Backward  upon  the  scenes  that  I  have  passed, 
How  pleasant  is  the  view !  and  yet  how  vast 
The  deserts  where  I  thirsted  many  days! 

There,  where  now  hangs  that  blue  and  shimmering 
haze,  5 

And  there,  and  there,  my  lot  with  pain  was  cast, 
Hopeless  and  dark;  but  always  at  the  last 

Deliverance  came  from  unexpected  ways. 

And  now  all  past  grief  is  as  but  a  dream: 

Yet  even  now  there  loom  before  my  path  10 

Shadows  whose  gloomy  portent  checks  my  breath. 

But  shadows  are  not  always  what  they  seem — 
God's  love  sometimes  appears  to  be  his  wrath, 
And  his  best  gift  is  the  white  rose  of  death. 

THE  LIGHT'OOD  FIRE.  A  descriptive  lyric  true  to 
nature.  15.  "  Boreas  " :  the  north  wind. 

CRISMUS  TIMES  Is  COME.  Dialect  verse  was  ex- 
cluded in  the  plan  of  this  book,  but  this  and  one 
or  two  others  are  so  perfectly  faithful  in  delineating 
the  negro  of  the  South  that  they  have  almost  de- 
manded admission. 

POE'S  COTTAGE  AT  FORDHAM.  Classify  this  lyric, 
and  state  its  stanza  and  metrical-structure.  7.  Poe 
lost  his  young  wife  at  Fordham.  20.  Explain.  21- 
24.  Lines  worthy  the  spirit  they  commemorate.  25- 
28.  Mythological  names  introduced  to  express  Poe's 
imaginative  reach.  The  same  idea  is  repeated  below, 

"  He  touched   at  heaven  and  hell." 

Does  it  appear  elsewhere?    31.  An  unfortunate  in- 

264 


JOHN    HENRY    BONER 


terruption  in  the  fluency  of  the  poem.  38. 
"Stranded":  stringed.  40.  Israfel."  See  Poe's 
poem  with  this  title,  p.  49.  56.  "  Cenotaphed  " :  like 
"  stranded  "  above,  a  somewhat  bold  use  of  the  word. 
The  noun  cenotaph,  from  which  this  word  is  made, 
means  an  empty  tomb ;  one  erected  to  a  person  buried 
elsewhere.  In  the  haunting  music  of  the  lines  and 
in  the  graceful  movement  of  the  stanzas  the  poem 
reminds  one  of  Swinburne's  "  Garden  of  Proser- 
pine." 

REMEMBRANCE.  The  sonnet  was  a  favorite  form 
with  Mr.  Boner  in  his  latter  years,  and  he  handled 
it  with  remarkable  skill.  This  is  as  well  wrought  as 
some  by  the  English  masters, — nor  is  it  the  only  one, 
nor  even  the  best,  that  could  be  chosen  from  his 
work. 

"TIME  BRINGS  ROSES."  Another  sonnet — grave, 
thoughtful,  comforting. 


265 


John  Banister  Tabb 

1845-1909 

Father  Tabb,  ordained  as  a  Catholic  priest  in 
1884,  was  born  in  Virginia.  He  served  in  the  Con- 
federate Navy  as  captain's  mate  on  a  blockade-run- 
ner. At  the  time  of  his  death  he  was  a  teacher  of 
the  lower  classes  in  English  at  St.  Charles  College, 
Ellicott  City,  Md.,  and  for  several  years  had  been  a 
contributor  of  short,  thoughtful  poems  to  periodical 
literature. 

He  published  these  books :  "  Poems,"  "  Lyrics," 
"An  Octave  to  Mary,"  etc. 


BEETHOVEN   AND   ANGELO 

One  made  the  surging  sea  of  tone 

Subservient  to  his  rod: 
One  from  the  sterile  womb  of  stone 

Raised  children  unto  God. 


THE    DEPARTED 

They  cannot  wholly  pass  away, 

How  far  soe'er  above; 
Nor  we,  the  lingerers,  wholly  stay 

Apart  from  those  we  love: 
For  spirits  in  eternity, 

As  shadows  in  the  sun, 
Reach  backward  into  Time,  as  we, 

Like  lifted  clouds,  reach  on. 

266 


JOHN    BANISTER    TABB 


FAME 

Their  noonday  never  knows 
What  names  immortal  are: 

'T  is  night  alone  that  shows 
How  star  surpasseth  star. 


EVOLUTION 

Out  of  the  dusk  a  shadow, 

Then,  a  spark; 
Out  of  the  cloud  a  silence, 

Then,  a  lark; 
Out  of  the  heart  a  rapture,  8 

Then,  a  pain; 
Out  of  the  dead,  cold  ashes, 

Life  again. 

BEETHOVEN  AND  ANGELO.  This  quatrain  is  rep- 
resentative of  the  author's  work — thought  couched 
in  a  few  forceful  words. 

THE  DEPARTED.  5-8.  The  simile  is  beautiful  in 
the  beginning,  but  is  not  carried  out  to  a  perfect  con- 
clusion. Criticise  it. 

FAME.  Another  perfect  quatrain.  Eead  White's 
great  sonnet  on  Night  and  Death. 

EVOLUTION.  Nature  teaches  immortality;  let  us 
ponder  this  with  hopeful  reverence. 


267 


Will  Henry  Thompson 

1848 

Mr.  Thompson  is  a  brother  of  the  late  James  Mau- 
rice Thompson,  whose  poetical  works  have  already 
received  attention  in  this  compilation.  He  was  born 
in  Gordon  County,  Ga.,  and,  with  his  brother,  served 
through  the  war  in  the  Confederate  Army.  He  is  a 
lawyer,  and  followed  that  profession  for  a  while  at 
Crawfordsville,  Ind.,  but  later  removed  to  Seattle, 
Wash.,  where  he  now  resides,  and  is  an  influential 
member  of  the  bar.  He  is  distinguished  as  an  ora- 
tor and  as  the  author  of  a  few  remarkably  strong 
poems. 

THE    HIGH    TIDE    AT    GETTYSBUEG 

A  cloud  possessed  the  hollow  field; 

The  gathering  battle's  smoky  shield, 

Athwart'  the  gloom  the  lightning  flashed, 
And  through  the  cloud  some  horsemen 
dashed, 

And  from  the  heights  the  thunder  pealed.        B 

Then,  a£  the  brief  command  of  Lee 
Moved  out  that  matchless  infantry, 
With  Pickett  leading  grandly  down, 
To  rush  against  the  roaring  crown 
Of  those  dread  heights  of  destiny.  10 

Par  heard  above  the  angry  guns 
A  cry  across  the  tumult  runs — 

The  voice  that  rang  through  Shiloh's  woods 

And  Chickamauga's  solitudes, 
The  fierce  South  cheering  on  her  sons !  15 

268 


WILL   HENRY   THOMPSON 

Ah,  how  the  withering  tempest  blew 

Against  the  front  of  Pettigrew! 

A  Kamsin  wind  that  scorched  and  singed 
Like  that  infernal  flame  that  fringed 

The  British  squares  at  Waterloo !  20 

A  thousand  fell  where  Kemper  led; 

A  thousand  died  where  Garnett  bled; 
In  blinding  flame  and  strangling  smoke 
The  remnant  through  the  batteries  broke 

And  crossed  the  works  with  Armistead.  25 

"  Once  more  in  glory's  van  with  me ! " 

Virginia  cried  to  Tennessee; 

"  We  two  together,  come  what  may 
Shall  stand  upon  these  works  to-day  " 

(The  reddest  day  in  history.)  30 

Brave  Tennessee!     In  reckless  way 

Virginia  heard  her  comrade  say: 

"  Close  round  this  rent  and  riddled  rag !  " 
What  time  she  sets  her  battle-flag 

Amid  the  guns  of  Doubleday.  35 

But  who  shall  break  the  guards  that  wait 

Before  the  awful  face  of  fate? 
The  tattered  standards  of  the  South 
Were  shriveled  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 

And  all  her  hopes  were  desolate.  40 

In  vain  the  Tennesseean  set 
His  breast  against  the  bayonet! 

In  vain  Virginia  charged  and  raged, 

A  tigress  in  her  wrath  uncaged, 
Till  all  the  hill  was  red  and  wet!  45 

269 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Above  the  bayonets,  mixed  and  crossed, 

Men  saw  a  gray,  gigantic  ghost 
Eeceding  through  the  battle-cloud, 
And  heard  across  the  tempest  loud 

The  death  cry  of  a  nation  lost !  50 

•  The  brave  went  down !    Without  disgrace 
They  leaped  to  Ruin's  red  embrace, 
They  only  heard  Fame's  thunders  wake, 
And  saw  the  dazzling  sun-burst  break 
In  smiles  on  Glory's  bloody  face !  55 

They  fell,  who  lifted  up  a  hand 
And  bade  the  sun  in  heaven  to  stand ! 
They  smote  and  fell,  who  set  the  bars 
Against  the  progress  of  the  stars, 
And  stayed  the  march  of  Motherland !  60 

They  stood,  who  saw  the  future  come 

On  through  the  fight's  delirium! 

They  smote  and  stood,  who  held  the  hope 
Of  nations  on  that  slippery  slope 

Amid  the  cheers  of  Christendom !  65 

God  lives!     He  forged  the  iron  will 
That  clutched  and  held  that  trembling  hill, 
God  lives  and  reigns !     He  built  and  lent 
The  heights  for  Freedom's  battlement 
Where  floats  her  flag  in  triumph  still !  70 

Fold  up  the  banners !     Smelt  the  guns ! 
Love  rules.     Her  gentler  purpose  runs, 

The  mighty  mother  turns  in  tears 

The  pages  of  her  battle  years, 
Lamenting  all  her  fallen  sons !  n 

270 


WILL    HENRY   THOMPSON 


THE  BOND  OF  BLOOD 

The  words  of  a  rebel  old  and  battered, 
Who  will  care  to  remember  them? 

"Under  the  Lost  Flag,  battle-tattered, 
I  was  a  comrade  of  Allan  Memm. 


Who  was  Allan  that  I  should  name  him  5 

Bravest  of  all  the  brave  who  bled? 

Why  should  a  soldier's  song  proclaim  him 
First  of  a  hundred  thousand  dead? 

An  angel  of  battle,  with  fair  hair  curling 
By   brown   cheeks  shrunken   and   wan   with 
want ;  10 

A  living  missile  that  Lee  was  hurling 
Straight  on  the  iron  front  of  Grant; 

A  war-child  born  of  the  Old  South's  passion, 
Trained  in  the  camp  of  the  cavaliers; 

A  spirit  wrought  in  the  antique  fashion  15 

Of  Glory's  martial  morning  years. 

His  young  wife's  laugh  and  his  baby's  prattle 
He  bore  through  the  roar  of  the  hungry  guns — 

Through  the  yell  of  shell  in  the  rage  of  battle, 
And  the  moan  that  under  the  thunder  runs.  20 


His  was  the  voice  that  cried  the  warning 
At  the  shattered  gate  of  the  slaughter-pen, 

When  Hancock  rushed  in  the  gray  of  morning 
Over  our  doomed  and  desperate  men. 
271 


STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

His  was  the  hand  that  held  the  standard —  25 
A  flaring  torch  on  a  crumbling  shore — 

'Mid  the  billows  of  blue  by  the  storm  blown 

landward, 
And  his  call  we  heard  through  the  ocean  roar : 

Ere  the  flag  should  shrink  to  a  lost  hope's  token, 
Ere  the  glow  of  its  glory  be  low  and  dim,  30 

Ere  its  stars  should  fade  and  its  bars  be  broken, 
Calling  his  comrades  to  come  to  him. 

And  these,  at  the  order  of  Hill  or  Gordon, — 

God  keep  their  ashes!     I  knew  them  well, — 

Would  have  smashed  the  ranks  of  the  devil's 

cordon,  35 

Or  charged  through  the  flames  that  roar  in 

hell. 

But  none  could  stand  where  the  storm  was  beat- 
ing, 

Never  a  comrade  could  reach  his  side; 
In  the  spume  of  flame  where  the  tides  were 

meeting, 
He,  of  a  thousand,  stood  and  died.  40 

And  the  foe,  in  the  old  heroic  manner, 

Tenderly  laid  his  form  to  rest, 
The  splintered  staff  and  the  riddled  banner 

Hiding  the  horror  upon  his  breast. 


Gone  is  the  cot  in  the  Georgia  wildwood,          45 
Gone  is  the  blossom-strangled  porch; 

The  roof  that  sheltered  a  soldier's  childhood 
Vainly  pleaded  with  Sherman's  torch. 

272 


WILL   HENRY  THOMPSON 

Gone  are  the  years,  and  far  and  feeble 

Ever  the  old  wild  echoes  die ;  60 

Hark  to  the  voice  of  a  great,  glad  people 
Hailing  the  one  flag  under  the  sky! 

And  the  monstrous  heart  of  the  storm  receding 
Fainter  and  farther  throbs  and  jars; 

And  the  new  storm  bursts,  and  the  brave  are 
bleeding  56 

Under  the  cruel  alien  stars. 

And  Allan's  wife  in  the  grave  is  lying 
Under  the  old  scorched  vine  and  pine, 

While  Allan's  child  in  the  isles  is  dying 
Far  on  the  foremost  fighting  line.  60 

Cheer  for  the  flag  with  the  old  stars  spangled  I 
Shake  out  its  folds  to  the  wind's  caress, 

Over  the  hearts  by  the  war-hounds  mangled, 
Down  in  the  tangled  Wilderness ! 

To  wave  o'er  the  grave  of  the  brave  forever ;  65 
For  the  Gray  has  sealed,  in  the  bond  of  blood, 

His  faith  to  the  Blue,  and  the  brave  shall  never 
Question  the  brave  in  the  sight  of  God. 


THE   DEATH-DREAM    OF   ARMENIA 

A  cry  from  pagan  dungeons  deep 
To  Albion  old  and  brave; 

A  wail  that  startles  from  her  sleep 
The  mistress  of  the  wave. 
273 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

We  feel  the  thrill  through  England's  soul 
Of  noblest  passion's  birth;  6 

We  hear  her  drum-alarum  roll 
The  circle  of  the  earth. 

When  mothers  kisfc  with  pallid  lips 

The  wounds  of  murdered  sons,  10 

We  see  the  sailors  on  her  ships 
Leap  to  their  shotted  guns. 

We  hear  her  martial  trumpets  blow 

The  challenge  of  the  free ; 
Her  lean  steel  war-wolves  howling  go       15 

Through  gateways  of  the  sea. 

The  talons  of  her  eagles  tear 

The  vulture  from  his  feast; 
The  lion  mangles  in  his  lair 

The  tiger  of  the  East.  20 

Ah,  what  a  cheer  from  Asia  breaks 

And  roars  along  the  dawn, 
As  rescue's  battle-thunder  shakes 

The  walls  of  Babylon! 


THE  HIGH  TIDE  AT  GETTYSBURG.  The  late  Charles 
A.  Dana,  of  the  New  York  Sun,  called  this  the  most 
remarkable  battle  poem,  not  merely  of  our  day,  but 
perhaps  of  any  day, — an  opinion  in  which  Oliver 
Wendell  Holmes  concurred.  Unquestionably  it  is 
the  most  powerful  war  lyric  we  have  ever  read.  "  Ho- 
henlinden  "  and  "  The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade  " 
both  stand  second  to  it.  The  author  of  it  partici- 
pated in  many  hard-fought  battles  (he  was  at  the 
274 


WILL   HENRY  THOMPSON 

"  Bloody  Angle/'  for  instance),  and  he  has  in  an  un- 
equalled degree  the  power  to  portray  in  language  the 
action  and  sublimity  of  a  great  battle.  Where  lies 
the  secret  of  the  poet's  power  ?  In  the  first  stanza  he 
sketches  out  the  whole  setting.  Sequence,  observa- 
tion, description,  imagery,  take  their  places  naturally. 
Follow  out  the  study  from  these  suggestions.  46-50. 
What  superb  figure  here?  Is  there  anything  in  the 
sentiments  between  this  and  the  close  that  a  South- 
erner could  criticise?  56-60.  Is  the  standard  of  his 
imagery  sustained  here?  Criticise  it. 

THE  BOND  OF  BLOOD.  What  type  of  poem  is  this? 
What  is  its  measure?  Its  movement?  Its  theme? 
Its  spirit?  65-68.  What  distinguishes  this  stanza? 
Do  these  touches  add  to  the  effect  or  the  finish  of  the 
poem? 

THE  DEATH-DREAM  OF  ARMENIA.  Give  the 
thought  in  this.  What  is  the  type?  The  poem  is 
characteristic  of  the  author.  Some  of  its  lines  are 
masterfully  constructed,  7,  12,  16,  for  instance.  It 
rises  to  a  climax. 


275 


Irwin  Russell 

1853-1879 

Irwin  Knssell  was  the  first  to  discover  the  literary 
value  of  the  negro  folk-song;  both  Joel  Chandler 
Harris  and  Thomas  Nelson  Page  acknowledge  their 
indebtedness  to  Kussell. 

Eussell  was  born  at  Port  Gibson,  Miss.,  and  when 
a  child  contracted  yellow  fever,  from  the  effects  of 
which  he  never  recovered  fully.  The  family  removed 
to  St.  Louis,  where  the  boy  completed  a  commercial 
course.  At  the  opening  of  the  Civil  War  his  family 
returned  to  their  native  State,  and  at  the  close  of  the 
conflict  Irwin  studied  law,  a  profession  he  never  fol- 
lowed, his  inclination  being  toward  letters. 

It  is  said  that  "  Christmas  Night  in  the  Quar- 
ters," from  which  these  extracts  are  taken,  was  first 
declined  by  a  local  newspaper,  and  afterwards  pub- 
lished by  an  influential  magazine.  Upon  its  appear- 
ance other  journals  of  standing  gave  the  young  au- 
thor a  hearing ;  and,  thus  encouraged,  he  visited  New 
York  with  the  hope  of  establishing  himself  there. 
He  fell  sick,  however,  and,  disappointed,  returned 
to  the  South  to  spend  his  last  days  in  grief  and  pov- 
erty. 

THE    OKIGIN    OF   THE   BANJO 
From  "Christmas  Night  in  the  Quarters." 

Go    'way,   fiddle!     folks    is    tired    o'   hearin'    you 

a-squawkin' ; 

Keep  silence  fur  yo'  betters! — don't  you  heah  de 
banjo  talkin'? 

276 


IRWIN   RUSSELL 


About  de  'possum's  tail  she's  gwine  to  lecter — ladies, 

listen ! — 
About  de  ha'r  whut  isn't  dar,  an'  why  de  ha'r  is 

missin' : 

"Bar's  gwine  to  be  a  oberflow,"  said  Noah,  lookin' 
solemn, —  B 

Fur  Noah  tuk  the  "  Herald,"  an'  he  read  de  ribber 
column, — 

An'  so  he  sot  his  hands  to  wuk  a-cl'arin'  timber- 
patches, 

An'  'lowed  he's  gwine  to  build  a  boat  to  beat  the 
steamah  Natchez. 

01'  Noah  kep'  a-nailin'  an'  a-chippin'  an'  a-sawin'; 
An'   all   de   wicked  neighbors   kep'   a-laughin'   an' 

a-pshawin' ; 
But  Noah  didn't  min'  'em,  knowin'  whut  wuz  gwine 

to  happen: 
An'  forty  days  an'   forty  nights  de  rain  it  kep' 

a-drappin'. 

Now,  Noah  had  done  cotched  a  lot  ob  eb'ry  sort  o' 

beas'es, — 

Ob  all  de  shows  a-trabbelin',  it  beat  'em  all  to  pieces ! 
He  had  a  Morgan  colt  an'  seb'ral  head  o'  Jarsey 

cattle,—  1B 

An'  druv  'em  board  de  Ark  as  soon's  he  heerd  de 

thunder  rattle. 

Den  sech  anoder  fall  ob  rain! — it  come  so  awful 

hebby, 

De  ribber  riz  immejitly,  an'  busted  troo  de  lebbee; 
De  people  all  wuz  drownded  out — 'cep'  Noah  an'  de 

critters, 
An'  men  he'd  hired  to  work  de  boat — an'  one  to  mix 

de  bitters.  *° 

277 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

De  Ark  she  kep'  a-sailin'  an'  a-sailin'  an'  a-sailin' ; 
De  lion  got  his  dander  up,  an'  like  to  bruk  de  palin' ; 
De  sarpints  hissed ;  de  painters  yelled ;  tell,  whut  wid 

all  de  fussin', 
You  c'u'dn't  hardly  heah  de  mate  a-bossin'  'roun'  an' 


Now,  Ham,  de  only  nigger  whut  wuz  runnin'  on  de 
packet,  25 

Got  lonesome  in  de  barber-shop,  an'  c'u'dn't  stan'  de 
racket; 

An'  so,  fur  to  amuse  hese'f,  he  steamed  some  wood  an' 
bent  it, 

An'  soon  he  had  a  banjo  made — de  fust  dat  wuz  in- 
vented. 

He  wet  de  ledder,  stretched  it  on;  made  bridge  an' 

screws  an'  apriri; 
An'  fitted  in  a  proper  neck— 'twuz  berry  long  an' 

tap'rin';    '  30 

He  tuk  some  tin,  an'  twisted  him  a  thimble  fur  to 

ring  it; 
An'  den  de  mighty  question  riz:  how  wuz  he  gwine 

to  string  it? 

De  'possum  had  as  fine  a  tail  as  dis  dat  I's  a-singin'; 
De  ha'r's  so  long  an'  thick  an'  strong, — des  fit  fur 

banjo-stringin' ; 
Dat  nigger  shaved  'em  off  as  short  as  washday-dinner 

graces;  35 

An'  sorted  ob  'em  by  de  size,  f'om  little  E's  to  basses. 

He  strung  her,  tuned  her,  struck  a  jig, — 'twuz  "  Neb- 
ber  min'  de  wedder," — 

She  sound'  like  forty-lebben  bands  a-playin'  all  to- 
gether; 

278 


IRWIN   RUSSELL 


Some  went  to  pattin';  some  to  dancin';  Noah  called 

de  figgers; 
An'  Ham  he  sot  an'  knocked  de  tune,  de  happiest  ob 

de  niggers !  40 

Now,  sence  dat  time — it's  mighty  strange — dere's  not 

de  slightes'  showin' 

Ob  any  ha'r  at  all  upon  de  'possum's  tail  a-growin' ; 
An'  curi's,  too,  dat's  nigger's  ways :  his  people  nebber 

los'  'em, — 
Fur  whar  you  finds  de  nigger — dar's  de  banjo  an'  de 

'possum ! 


A   BLESSING  ON    THE    DANCE 

From  "Christmas  Night  in  the  Quarters." 

0   Mahs'r!  let  dis  gath'rin'  fin'  a  blessin'   in  yo' 

sight  I 
Don't  jedge  us  hard  fur  what  we  does — you  know  it's 

Chrismus-night ; 
An'  all  de  balunce  of  de  yeah  we  does  as  right's  we 

kin, 
Ef  dancin's  wrong,  0  Mahs'r !  let  de  time  excuse  de 

sin! 

We  labors  in  de  vineya'd,  wu'kin'  hard  an'  wu'kin 
true ;  5 

Now,  shorely  you  won't  notus  ef  we  eats  a  grape  or 
two, 

An'  takes  a  leetle  holiday,— a  leetle  restin'-spell,— 

Bekase,  next  week,  we'll  start  in  fresh,  an'  labor 
twicet  as  well. 

279 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Kemember,  Mahs'r, — min'  dis,  now, — de  sinfulness 
ob  sin 

Is  'pendin'  'pon  de  sperrit  what  we  goes  an'  does  it 
in:  10 

An'  in  a  righchis  frame  ob  min'  we's  gwine  to  dance 
an'  sing, 

A-feelin'  like  King  David  when  he  cut  de  pigeon- 
wing. 

It  seems  to  me — indeed  it  do — I  mebbe  mout  be 

wrong — 
That  people  r'aly  ought  to  dance  when  Chrismus 

comes  along; 
Des  dance  bekase  dey's  happy — like  de  birds  hops  in 

de  trees,  15 

De  pine-top  fiddle  soundin'  to   de   bowin'   ob   de 

breeze. 

"We  has  no  ark  to  dance  afore,  like  Isrul's  prophet 

king; 
We  has  no  harp  to  soun'  de  chords,  to  help  us  out  to 

sing; 
But  'cordin'  to  de  gif  s  we  has  we  does  de  bes'  we 

knows, 
An'  folks  don't  spise  de  vi'let-flower  bekase  it  ain't 

de  rose.  20 

You  bless  us,  please,  sah,  eben  ef  we's  doin'  wrong  to- 
night; 

Ease  den  we'll  need  de  blessin'  more  'n  ef  we's  doin' 
right; 

An'  let  de  blessin'  stay  wid  us,  untel  we  comes  to  die, 

An'  goes  to  keep  our  Chrismus  wid  dem  sheriffs  in 
de  sky! 

280 


IRWIN   RUSSELL 


Yes,  tell  dem  preshis  anguls  we's  a-gwine  to  jine  'em 
soon :  25 

Our  voices  we's  a-trainin'  fur  to  sing  de  glory  tune; 

We's  ready  when  you  wants  us,  an'  it  ain't  no  matter 
when — 

0  Maha'r !  call  yo'  chillun  soon,  an'  take  'em  home  I 
Amen. 

These  two  selections,  together  with  Boner's,  pp. 
260,  261,  and  McNeill's,  pp,  336,  337,  leave  nothing 
to  be  added  in  negro  dialect.  Nothing  better  or  truer 
has  ever  been  written  in  this  vein. 


281 


Samuel  Minturn  Peck 

1854 

This  writer  of  graceful  songs  lives  in  his  native 
town,  Tuscaloosa,  Ala.  His  parents  were  both  from 
the  North,  hut  lived  in,  and  were  identified  with,  the 
South.  His  father,  E.  Wolsey  Peck,  was  Chief  Jus- 
tice of  Alabama. 

The  son  was  graduated  from  the  University  of 
Alabama,  studied  medicine  (which  he  never  prac- 
ticed), and  later  began  making  songs,  nature  lyrics, 
and  society  verse.  Still  later  he  tried  prose,  and  has 
published  a  book  of  stories  entitled  "Alabama 
Sketches,"  which  appeared  about  1902.  He  con- 
tinues to  contribute  to  the  magazines,  and  has  con- 
siderable material  toward  another  volume.  His 
principal  collections  are  "  Cap  and  Bells,"  "  Rings 
and  Love-Knots,"  and  "Rhymes  and  Roses."  He  is 
to  America  what  Austin  Dobson  is  to  England. 

FOREBODING 

If  love  could  pass  as  die  away 
The  summer  winds  at  ebb  of  day 
That  through  the  amber  silence  stray, 

Sweet  heralds  of  repose, 
Whispering  in  the  ear  of  Mght  5 

The  memory  of  the  Morning's  light, 

The  fragrance  of  its  rose, 
Then  we  might  love  and  never  dread 
The  awful  void  when  love  is  dead. 
282 


SAMUEL    MINTURN    PECK 


A  SONG  FOE  THE  SOUTH 

0  peerless  land  of  tears  and  smiles, 
Of  fragrant  glooms  and  golden  hours, 

Where  Summer's  hand  with  endless  wiles 
Entwines  the  feet  of  Time  with  flowers, 

Howe'er  the  tide  of  fortune  flow,  5 

Thou  hast  my  heart  where'er  I  go ! 

No  blot  of  shame  thy  record  mars 

In  senate-hall  or  lurid  fight: 
Thy  spotless  fame  shines  like  the  stars 

That  guard  thee  through  the  balmy  night. 10 
In  weary  wanderings  to  and  fro, 
Thou  hast  my  heart  where'er  I  go ! 

Thy  maids  are  fair,  thy  warriors  brave, 
And  those  at  peace  beneath  the  pine, 

Hymned  through  the  air  by  wind  and 

wave, —  15 

Their  glory  needs  no  song  of  mine. 

0  native  Land !  through  weal  and  woe, 

Thou  hast  my  heart  where'er  I  go. 


IN  THE   SOUTHEKN   PINES 

Oh,  art  thou  weary  of  the  glare 

Of  cities  and  the  fevered  show, 
And  dost  thou  loathe  the  fret  and  care 

That  through  their  ways  forever  flow? 

Prithee  to  me  give  ear,  for  lo! 
Beside  a  pine-clad  Southern  hill 

There  is  a  place  to  soothe  thy  woe, 
Where  sings  the  lonely  whip-poor-will. 
283 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Thou  wilt  not  hear  the  trumpet's  blare, 
!Nb  diva's  shrill  arpeggio;  10 

No  danseuse  demi-nude  will  dare 
Lorgnettes  up-levelled  row  on  row; 
But  purer  pleasures  thou  shalt  know, 

The  trembling  fern,  the  purling  rill ; 
For  thee  shall  bound  the  startled  doe        15 
Where  sings  the  lonely  whip-poor-will. 

And  thou  shalt  greet  beyond  compare 

The  fairest  vision  life  can  owe, 
When  through  the  calm  and  fragrant  air 

The  night  shall  come  with  stars  a-glow,    20 

And  tall  magnolias  all  a-blow 
Shall  win  the  zephyrs  to  be  still ; 

All  this  is  thine  if  thou  wilt  go 
Where  sings  the  lonely  whip-poor-will. 

ENVOY 

Oh,  Prince,  I  pray  this  boon  bestow  25 

On  one  unlearned  in  courtier-skill, 

Come  with  me  now  and  fear  no  foe 
Where  sings  the  lonely  whip-poor-will. 

WHEN   THE   CRICKET   SINGS 

When  the  cricket  sings  with  elfin  lyre 
In  autumn  fields  of  rich  attire, 

How  sweet  to  gaze,  with  heart  at  rest, 
Where  summer's  flying  feet  have  pressed 
The  glowing  turf!     What  joy  is  higher?      5 
The  sunbeams  stretch  like  golden  wire 
Whereon  the  winds  at  their  desire 
Chant  choruses  with  happy  zest 
When  the  cricket  sings. 
284 


SAMUEL   MINTURN   PECK 

Yet  when  the  autumn  hues  expire,  10 

And  winter  gales  shriek  out  in  ire, 
There  comes  an  hour  more  truly  blest, 
For  Love  and  I,  within  our  nest, 
We  heed  no  storm  beside  the  fire 

When  the  cricket  sings !  u 

AN  ALABAMA  GARDEN 

Along  a  pine-clad  hill  it  lies, 
O'erlooked  by  limpid  Southern  skies, 
A  spot  to  feast  a  fairy's  eyes, 

A  nook  for  happy  fancies. 
The  wild  bee's  mellow  monotone  5 

Here  blends  with  bird-notes  zephyr-blown, 
And  many  an  insect  voice  unknown 

The  harmony  enhances. 

The  rose's  shattered  splendor  flees 

With  lavish  grace  on  every  breeze,  10 

And  lilies  sway  with  flexile  ease 

Like  dryads  snowy-breasted; 
And  where  gardenias  drowse  between 
Eich  curving  leaves  of  glossy  green, 
The  cricket  strikes  his  tambourine,  16 

Amid  the  mosses  nested. 

Here  dawn-flushed  myrtles  interlace, 
And  sifted  sunbeams  shyly  trace 
Frail  arabesques  whose  shifting  grace 

Is  wrought  of  shade  and  shimmer;       20 
At  eventide  scents  quaint  and  rare 
Go  straying  through  my  garden  fair, 
As  if  they  sought  with  wildered  air 

The  fireflies'  fitful  glimmer. 
285 


A   STUDY   IN'    SOUTHERN   POETRY 

Oh,  could  some  painter's  facile  brush  25 

On  canvas  limn  my  garden's  blush, 
The  fevered  world  its  din  would  hush 

To  crown  the  high  endeavor ; 
Or  could  a  poet  snare  in  rhyme 
The  breathings  of  this  balmy  clime 
His  fame  might  dare  the  dart  of  Time 

And  soar  undimmed  forever  I  ..  ,. 

MIGNON" 

Across  the  gloom  the  gray  moth  speeds 

To  taste  the  midnight  brew, 
The  drowsy  lilies  tell  their  beads 
On  rosaries  of  dew. 

The  stars  seem  kind,  5 

And  e'en  the  wind 
Hath  pity  for  my  woe, 
Ah,  must  I  sue  in  vain,  ma  "belle? 
Say  no,  Mignon,  say  no! 

Erelong  the  dawn  will  come  to  break         10 

The  web  of  darkness  through ; 
Let  not  my  heart  unanswered  ache 
That  beats  alone  for  you.' 
Your  casement  ope 
And  bid  me  hope,  15 

Give  me  one  smile  to  bless; 
A  word  will  ease  my  pain,  ma  ladle, 
Say  yes,  Mignon,  say  yes ! 

FOREBODING.     The  author  sent  me  this  tender  lit- 
tle reflection,  and  it  is  now  printed  for  the  first  time. 

A  SONG  FOR  THE  SOUTH.    This  lyric  reveals  the 
author's  feeling  toward  his  native  Southland. 
286 


SAMUEL    MINTURN    PECK 


IN  THE  SOUTHERN  PINES.  This  is  a  ballade,  a 
French  form.  Examine  its  complicated  structure. 
It  takes  rare  skill  in  versification  to  write  it  well, 
for  spontaneity  is  its  chief  charm,  and  its  restrictions 
are  likely  to  give  it  a  labored  movement.  25.  The 
"Envoy"  is  an  explanatory  or  commendatory  post- 
script added  to  this  kind  of  poem. 

WHEN  THE  CRICKET  SINGS  is  also  a  foreign  form, 
— a  rondeau.  The  foregoing  remarks  apply  here. 

AN  ALABAMA  GARDEN.  Classify  this  poem.  What 
is  its  mood  ?  Characterize  its  diction.  Its  movement. 
What  is  its  stanza-form?  Is  the  form  figurative? 
6.  "Zephyr-blown":  the  word  is  trite.  11,  12.  Is 
the  figure  more  graceful  than  illustrative?  12. 
"  Dryads  " :  nymphs  of  the  woods.  15.  Criticise  the 
line.  19.  "Arabesques":  meaning?  The  poem  is 
written  with  delicate  appreciation. 

MIGNON.  This  is  an  exquisite  little  love  song, 
tender  in  mood  and  graceful  in  movement  2,  3. 
Explain  the  pretty  conceit 


287 


Armistead  Churchill  Gordon 
1855 

Mr.  Gordon  is  a  lawyer,  living  in  Staunton,  Va., 
and  was  at  one  time  mayor  of  that  city.  He  is  a 
Virginian,  born  in  Albemarle  County,  and  is  the 
grandson  of  General  W.  F.  Gordon. 

With  Thomas  Nelson  Page  he  published  "  Befo'  de 
War."  He  himself  is  the  author  of  "  Echoes  in 
Negro  Dialect,"  "For  Truth  and  Freedom,"  and 
"  The  Gay  Gordons," — this  last  being  a  collection  of 
ballads  edited  by  him  and  containing  one  of  his  own. 
"  The  Gift  of  the  Morning  Star,"  "  The  Ivory  Gate," 
"  Robin  Aroon,"  "  For  Truth  and  Freedom,"  "  Life 
of  General  William  Fitzhugh  Gordon,"  are  others  of 
his  works. 

NEW  MAEKET 

How  shall  the  eternal  fame  of  them  be  told, 
Who,  dying  in  the  heyday  of  life's  morn, 

Thrust  from  their  lips  the  chalice  of  bright  gold 
Filled  to  the  brim  with  joy,  and  went  forlorn 

Into  the  abysmal  darkness  of  that  bourn  5 

Whence  they  who  thither  go  may  nevermore  return  ? 

The  circling  seasons  pass  in  old  progression 

Of  beauty  and  of  immortality; 
The  ancient  stars  march  on  in  far  procession; 

And  immemorial  winds  sweep  o'er  the  sea;        10 
The  mountains  drop  their  wine;  the  flowers  bloom; 
While  these,  who  should  have  lived,  sleep  in  an  early 
tomb. 

288 


ARMISTEAD   CHURCHILL  GORDON 

No  blight  had  touched  the  garlands  that  they  wore, 
Dewy  and  fresh  with  innocence  and  ruth; 

No  dead  illusions  or  spent  glamours  bore  15 

With  heaviness  upon  them.     Their  gay  youth 

Caught  but  the  bubbles  on  the  beaker's  brim, 

Nor  e'er  beheld  life's  lees  with  eyes  grown  old  and 
dim. 

Were  they  in  love  with  death's  forgetfulness 
Thus  to  lie  down  with  the  enduring  dead? 

Had  wood  and  stream  lost  all  their  loveliness, 
Or  morning's  sunshine  faded  overhead, 

That  they  sought  surcease  of  life's  sorrows  there, 

Leaving  wan  Love  to  weep  o'er  boyhood's  sunny  hair  ? 

All  the  old  questionings  rise  to  our  lips  25 

In  the  sad  contemplation  of  Youth  slain : 

Life's  hidden  meaning,  and  Death's  dark  eclipse, — 
The  passion  and  the  pathos  and  the  pain; — 

The  unanswering  answer  that  the  wisest  reads 

In  the  grim  mystery  that  hangs  behind  the  creeds.  30 

And  yet — and  yet — we  old,  whose  heads  are  gray, 
Whose  hearts  are  heavy,  and  whose  steps  are  slow 

With  journeying  on  this  rough  and  thorny  way, — 
We,  who  live  after  them, — what  may  we  know 

Of  their  ecstatic  rapture  thus  to  have  died, —          36 

The  marvellous,  sleepless  souls  that  perished  in  their 
pride? 

If  the  worn  hearts  and  weary  fall  on  sleep 
With  a  deep  longing  for  its  sweet  repose, 

Shall  not  they,  likewise,  whom  the  high  Gods  keep, 
Die  while  yet  bloom  the  lily  and  the  rose  ? 

To  each  man  living  comes  a  day  to  die : 

What  better  day  than  when  Truth  calls  to  Liberty? 
289 


A   STUDY  IN1    SOUTHERN   POETRY 

Writ  in  the  rocks,  the  world's  primeval  page 
Is  old  past  human  skill  to  interpret  it, 

Save  where  it  speaks  to  grief  of  man's  gray  age,    45 
And  with  the  end  of  all  things  is  o'erwrit: — 

All  things  save  one,  that  hath  unfading  youth 

And   strength   and   power   and   beauty, — clear-eyed 
Truth. 

On  mountain  top — in  valley — by  the  sea, — 

Wherever  sleep  the  patriots  who  have  died  50 

In  her  high  honor, — at  Thermopylae, — 

At  Bannockburn, — or  where  great  rivers  glide, 

To  the  wide  ocean  bordering  our  own  shore, 

Truth  sees  the  holy  face  of  Freedom  evermore! 

The    blood-stained    face    of    Freedom,    that    hath 

wrought  55 

For  man  a  magic  and  a  mystery: 
Whose   bright  blade,  e'en,  when  broken,   yet  hath 

bought 

A  grave  with  the  eternal  for  the  free. 
— Freedom   and    Truth, — these    went   beside   them 

there, 
Marching  to  deathless  death,   forever  young  and 

fair.  60 

— "  Send  the  Cadets  in !  and  may  God  forgive !  " 
— Who    spake   the   words   had   welcomed   rather 

death. 

But  truth  dies  not,  and  Liberty  shall  live, 
E'en    though    Youth    wither    in    the    cannon's 
breath.  65 

— And  at  the  order,  debonair  and  gay, 
They  move  into  the  front  of  an  immortal  day. 
290 


ARMISTEAD   CHURCHILL  GORDON 

"  Battalion   forward !  "  rang  the  sharp   command ; 

"  Guide  centre ! "  and  the  banner  was  unfurled. 
Then,  as  if  on  parade,  the  little  band 

Dressed  to  the  flag. — A  sad  and  sombre  world    70 
Thrills  with  the  memory  of  how  they  went, 
Into  that  raging  storm  of  fire  and  carnage  blent. 

A  worn  and  weary  world  in  sorrow  weeps 

For  high  hopes  vanished  at  life's  sunny  morn ; 

— Yet  Truth  with  eyes  that  never  falter,  keeps        75 
Her  gaze  on  Freedom's  face,  that  smiles  in  scorn 

Of  death  for  them  who  wear  the  laurelled  crown, — 

The  early  dead,  who  die  with  an  achieved  renown. 

Creeds  fade,  faiths  perish ;  empires  rise  and  fall ; 

And  as  the  shining  sun  goes  on  his  way, 
Oblivion  covers  with  a  dusty  pall 

The  life  of  man,  predestined  to  decay. 
— Yet  is  there  one  thing  that  shall  never  die: 
The  memory  of  the  Dead  for  Truth  and  Liberty. 

This  poem  was  read  June  23,  1903,  at  the  dedi- 
cation of  Sir  Moses  Ezekiel's  monument  to  the  mem- 
ory of  the  cadets  of  the  Virginia  Military  Institute 
who  fell  in  the  battle  of  New  Market,  Va.,  May  15, 
1864.  What  type  of  poem?  52,  53.  What  battles 
are  meant  in  "  or  where  great  rivers  glide,"  etc.  ? 


291 


William  Hamilton  Hayne 

1856 

The  son  of  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  inherited  a 
goodly  share  of  his  father's  lyric  gift.  He  grew  to 
manhood  at  "  Copse  Hill "  under  the  careful  direc- 
tion of  his  refined  parents,  and  attained  to  an  inti- 
mate knowledge  of  English  literature  and  music. 

His  poems  are  usually  brief,  many  of  them  taking 
the  quatrain  form.  His  power  of  concentration  is  at 
times  striking.  No  better  illustration  of  this  state- 
ment could  be  offered  than  the  first  selection  from 
his  work,  "  The  Head  of  Mobe." 

Mr.  Hayne  has  published  one  volume,  "  Sylvan 
Lyrics/'  and  contributes  occasionally  to  some  of  our 
leading  periodicals.  He  now  lives  in  Augusta,  Ga. 


THE  HEAD  OF  NIOBE 
In  the  Uffizi  Gallery 

Lips  that  withhold  the  anguish  she  had  known, 
Perpetual  pathos  in  the  voiceless  stone, — 
The  eyes  decreed  in  dead  Olympian  years 
A  mournful  immortality  of  tears. 

THE  BUST  OF  KROJSTOS 

In  the  Vatican  Museum 

A  half-veiled  head,  a  sad,  unfurrowed  face, 
Titanic  power  and  more  than  mortal  grace; 
Across  wan  lips  and  eyes  bereft  of  light 
The  awful  shadow  of  unending  night. 

292 


WILLIAM   HAMILTON    HAYNE 


IN  SHADOW-LAND 

In  shadow-land  I  wander  far 

Without  the  clasp  of  that  dear  hand, 
Whose  mother-love  was  like  a  star 
In  shadow-land. 

Her  soul  has  reached  the  shining  strand  5 

Where  waves  that  roll  from  Death's  dark  bar 
Lapse  into  light  and  music  grand. 

She  dwells  where  darkness  cannot  mar 

The  hills  of  God,  by  glory  spanned, — 
I  roam  where  grief's  gray  memories  are  10 

In  shadow-land. 

THE    SCREECH-OWL 

I 

He  loves  the  dark,  he  shuns  the  light, 
His  soul  rejoices  in  the  night ! 

When  the  sun's  latest  glow  has  fled, 
Weird  as  a  warning  from  the  dead, 

His  voice  comes  o'er  the  startled  rills,  5 

And  the  black  hollows  of  the  hills, 

As  though  to  chant,  in  language  fell, 
An  invocation  caught  from  Hell! 

II 

He  seeks  the  dark,  he  shuns  the  light, 
His  soul  rejoices  in  the  night ! 
293 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

He  loves  to  think  man's  breath  must  pass 
Like  a  spent  wind  amid  the  grass ; 

And  oft  the  bitterest  blows  of  Fate, 
His  eerie  cries  anticipate! 

Ah !  once  he  knew  in  realms  below 
The  mysteries  of  Death  and  Woe;     ' 

And  in  his  sombre  wings  are  furled 
The  secrets  of  the  under  world! 


THE   SOUTHERN   SNOW-BIRD 

I  see  a  tiny  fluttering  form 
Beneath  the  soft  snow's  soundless  storm 
'Mid  a  strange  moonlight  palely  shed 
Through  mocking  cloud-rifts  overhead. 

All  other  birds  are  far  from  sight, —  5 

They  think  the  day  has  turned  to  night; 
But  he  is  cast  in  hardier  mould, 
This  chirping  courier  of  the  cold. 

He  does  not  come  from  lands  forlorn, 
Where  midnight  takes  the  place  of  morn ;      10 
Nor  did  his  dauntless  heart,  I  know, 
Beat  first  above  Siberian  snow; 

And  yet  an  arctic  bird  he  seems; 
Though  nurtured  near  our  southern  streams. 
The  tip  of  his  small  tail  may  be  15 

A  snow-storm  in  epitome. 

294 


WILLIAM   HAMILTON    HAYNE 


A   SEA   LYRIC 

There  is  no  music  that  man  has  heard, 

Like  the  voice  of  the  minstrel  sea, 
Whose  major  and  minor  chords  are  fraught 

With  infinite  mystery — 
For  the  sea  is  a  harp,  and  the  winds  of  God    5 

Play  over  his  rhythmic  breast, 
And  bear  on  the  sweep  of  their  mighty  wings 

The  song  of  a  vast  unrest. 

There  is  no  passion  that  man  has  sung, 

Like  the  love  of  the  deep-souled  sea,  10 

Whose  tide  responds  to  the  moon's  soft  light 

With  marvelous  melody — 
For  the  sea  is  a  harp,  and  the  winds  of  God 

Play  over. his  rhythmic  breast, 
And  bear  on  the  sweep  of  their  mighty  wings 

The  song  of  a  vast  unrest. 

There  is  no  sorrow  that  man  has  known, 

Like  the  grief  of  the  wordless  main, 
Whose  Titan  bosom  forever  throbs 

With  an  untranslated  pain —  20 

For  the  sea  is  a  harp,  and  the  winds  of  God 

Play  over  his  rhythmic  breast, 
And  bear  on  the  sweep  of  their  mighty  wings 

The  song  of  a  vast  unrest. 

IN  SHADOW  LAND.  Compare  this  rondeau  with 
Peck's,  p.  284,  and  note  the  difference  in  their  form. 

THE  SCREECH-OWL  is  written  in  couplets.  Point 
out  how  the  setting  and  the  diction  are  in  harmony 
with  the  theme. 

295 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

THE  SOUTHERN  SNOW-BIRD.  This,  too,  is  written 
with  keen  appreciation.  Contrast  its  treatment 
with  the  foregoing.  8,  16.  Very  felicitous  lines; 
match  them  elsewhere  in  the  poem. 

A  SEA  LYRIC.  This  poem,  taken  from  the  Atlan- 
tic Monthly,  in  which  it  first  appeared,  is  one  of  the 
author's  very  best  poems.  It  is  indeed  a  haunting 
melody. 


296 


Frank  Lebby  Stanton 

1857 

Mr.  Stanton  is  a  South  Carolinian.  He  was  born 
in  Charleston,  but  for  the  most  of  his  life  has  been  a 
resident  of  Atlanta,  Ga.  He  is  on  the  editorial  staff 
of  the  Constitution,  and  contributes  a  column  daily 
to  that  paper, — verses,  witticisms,  etc.  While  these 
songs  necessarily  lack  thought  and  finish,  dashed  off 
as  they  are  to  fill  waiting  space,  yet  now  and  then 
one  sings  with  lyric  beauty. 

He  has  issued  three  volumes,  "  Songs  of  a  Day," 
"  Songs  of  the  Soil/'  and  "  Comes  One  with  a  Song/' 
His  poems  are  widely  popular. 


MY   DEAD   FKIEND 

Adown  the  vale  of  Life  together 

We  walked  in  Spring  and  Winter  weather, 

When  days  were  dim,  when  days  were  bright; 
My  friend  of  whom  God's  will  bereft  me, 
Whose  kind,  congenial  spirit  left  me  5 

And  went  forth  in  the  Unknown  Night. 

I  saw  his  step  grow  more  invalid, 
I  saw  his  cheek  grow  pallid — pallid, 

And  wither  like  a  dying  rose; 
Until,  at  length,  being  all  too  weary  10 

For  Life's  rude  scenes  and  places  dreary, 

He  bade  farewell  to  friends  and  foes. 
297 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

This  is  his  grave.     The  Spring  with  flowers 
Bestrews  it  in  the  morning  hours, 

Her  rarest  roses  o'er  him  bowed;  1B 

And  Summer  pauses  to  deplore  him, 
And  weeping  Winter  arches  o'er  him 

Her  solemn  drapery  of  cloud. 

He  was  not  faultless.    God,  who  gave  him 
Life,  and  Christ,  who  died  to  save  him,         20 
Sent  Sorrow,  wherewith  he  was  tried; 
And  if,  as  I  who  loved  him  name  him, 
There  should  be  heard  a  voice  to  blame  him, 
May  we  not  answer,  "  Christ  hath  died"? 

Ah,  verily!  ...  I  fancy  often  25 

I  see  his  kindly  features  soften, — 

I  mark  his  melting  eyes  grow  dim, 
While  Hunger,  with  its  pained  appealing, 
Its  want  and  woe  and  grief  revealing, 

Stretched  its  imploring  palms  to  him.  30 

He  cannot  answer  now.    He  never, 
In  all  the  dim,  vast,  deep  Forever, 

Shall  speak  with  human  words  again. 
He  cannot  hear  the  song-birds  calling; 
He  cannot  feel  the  Spring  dews  falling,          35 

Nor  sigh  when  Winter  winds  complain. 

Deep  is  his  sleep.    He  would  not  waken 
Though  earth  were  to  her  centre  shaken 

By  the  loud  thunders  of  a  God. 
Though  the  strong  sea,  by  tempest  driven,      40 
With  wailing  waves  rock  earth  and  heaven, 

He  would  not  answer  from  the  sod. 


FRANK  LEBBY  STANTON 


So  be  it,  friend !     A  little  while  hence, 
And  in  the  drear,  deep,  dreamless  silence 

We  too  shall  share  thy  couch  of  rest.          45 
When  we  have  trod  Life's  pathways  dreary, 
Kind  Death  will  take  the  hands  grown  weary, 

And  gently  fold  them  o'er  the  breast. 

Sleep  on,  dear  friend!     No  marble  column 
Gleams  in  the  lights  and  shadows  solemn       50 

Over  the  grasses  on  thy  grave ; 
But  flowers  bloom  there — the  roses  love  thee; 
And  the  tall  oaks  that  tower  above  thee, 

Their  broad,  green  banners  o'er  thee  wave. 

Sleep,  while  the  weary  years  are  flying;          B5 
While  men  are  born,  while  men  are  dying ! 

Sleep  on  thy  curtained  couch  of  sod! 
Thine  be  the  rest  which  Christ  hath  given, 
Thine  be  the  Christian's  hope  of  Heaven; 

Thine  be  the  perfect  peace  of  God !  60 


LITTLE   ELAINE 

Where  have  you  gone,  little  Elaine, 

With  eyes  like  violets  wet  with  rain — 

Silvery  April  rain  that  throws 

(Ah,  never  with  eyes  as  bright  as  those!) 

Melting  diamonds  over  the  rose. 

You  have  left  me  alone,  but  where  have 

you  flown? 
God  knows,  my  dear,  God  knows! 


A    STUDY   IN*    SOUTHERN   POETRY 

Where  have  you  gone,  little  Elaine, 
With  laughing  lips  of  the  crimson  stain — 
Lips  that  smiled  as  the  sunlight  glows 
When  morning  breaks  like  a  white,  sweet 

rose 

Over  the  wearisome  winter  snows? 
Shall  I  miss  their  song  my  whole  life  long? 
God  knows,  my  dear,  God  knows ! 

You  have  left  me  lonely,  little  Elaine :  & 

I  call  to  you,  but  I  call  in  vain; 

I  sing  to  you  when  the  twilight  throws 

Its  dying  light  on  my  life's  last  rose, 

While  the  tide  of  memory  ebbs  and  flows. 

Is  it  God's  own  will  I  should  miss  you  still  ? 

God  knows,  my  dear,  God  knows! 

GOOD-BY 

There's  "a  kind  o'  chilly  feelin'  in  the  blowin'  o'  the 

breeze, 
An'  a  sense  o'  sadness  stealin'  through  the  tresses  o' 

the  trees; 
And  it's  not  the  sad  September  that's  slowly  drawin' 

nigh, 
But  jest  that  I  remember  I'm  here  to  say  "  Good-by." 

"  Good-by,"  the  wind  is  wailin' ;  "  good-by,"  the  trees 
complain,  5 

An'  bend  low  down  to  whisper,  with  green  leaves 
white  with  rain ; 

"  Good-by,"  the  roses  murmur,  an'  the  bendin'  lilies 
sigh, 

As  if  they  all  felt  sorry  that  I'm  come  to  say  "  Good- 

V 

800 


FRANK  LEBBY  STANTON 


I  reckon  all  have  said  it,  some  time  or  other — soft 
An'  easy  like — with  eyes  low  down,  that  couldn't  look 

aloft  10 

Fer  the  tears  that  trembled  in  'em,  fer  the  lips  that 

choked  the  sigh 
When  it  kind  o'  took  holt  o'  the  heart,  an'  made  it 

beat  "Good-by!" 

I  didn't  think  'twas  hard  to  say,  but  standin'  here 
alone, 

With  the  pleasant  past  behin'  me,  an'  the  future  all 
unknown, 

A  gloomin'  yonder  in  the  dark,  I  can't  keep  back  the 
sigh,  15 

An'  I'm  weepin'  like  a  woman  as  I  tell  you  all "  Good- 
by!" 

The  work  I've  done  is  with  you;  maybe  some  things 

went  wrong, 
Like  a  note  that  jars  the  music  in  the  sweet  flow  of 

a  song! 
But,  brethren,  when  you  think  o'  me,  I  only  ask  you 

would 
Say  as  the  Master  said  o'  one :  "  He's  done  just  what 

he  could!"  20 

An'  when  you  sit  together  in  the  time  that's  goin'  to 
be, 

By  your  bright  an'  beamin'  firesides  in  this  pleasant 
land  o'  Lee, 

Let  the  sweet  past  come  before  you,  an'  with  some- 
thin'  like  a  sigh, 

Jest  say:  "We  ain't  f ergot  him  since  the  day  he 
said  "Good-by!" 

301 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

MY  DEAD  FRIEND.  A  dignified  expression  of  a 
manly  sorrow.  At  times  the  poem  reaches  exalted 
utterance,  as,  for  instance,  in  line  32.  36-41.  Is  this 
passage  in  the  same  key  as  the  verse  mentioned  ?  43. 
"While  hence,"  rhyming  with  "silence/'  is  as  un- 
expected as  Browning's  somewhat  similar  "  silence  " 
with  "  mile  hence  "  in  "  The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin," 
— or  his  "  from  mice  "  with  "  promise/'  in  the  same 
poem. 

LITTLE  ELAINE.  A  lyric  of  tender  sentiment,  wor- 
thy to  be  classed  with  some  of  those  by  Aldrich,  Field, 
and  Riley. 

GOOD-BY.  This  is  introduced  as  a  representative 
of  the  author's  dialect  verse,  in  which  class  by  far 
the  most  of  his  work  falls.  What  is  the  theme  in  this 
poem?  20.  What  of  this  quotation?  What  is  the 
measure?  The  movement? 


302 


Henry  Jerome  Stockard 

1858 

[Mr.  Stockard's  poems  are  included  in  this  volume  at 
our  request.  THE  PUBLISHEBS.] 

Mr.  Stockard  is  a  native  of  North  Carolina,  where 
he  has  resided  nearly  all  his  life.  He  was  educated 
at  the  Graham  High  School,  and  pursued  a  course  at 
the  State  University,  Chapel  Hill,  N.  C.  He  is  an 
educator,  has  been  a  member  of  the  faculties  of  the 
University  of  North  Carolina,  Fredericksburg  Col- 
lege (Va.),  etc.,  and  is  at  this  time  the  president  of 
Peace  Institute,  Raleigh,  N.  C.,  with  which  college 
he  has  been  connected  for  about  ten  years. 

Mr.  Stockard  has  contributed  occasionally  to  some 
of  our  leading  periodicals, — Harper's,  the  Century, 
etc.,  and  is  the  author  of  one  volume  of  verse,  "  Fugi- 
tive Lines"  (1897),  published  by  the  Putnams  of 
New  York.  He  is  also  the  author  of  this  "  Study  in 
Southern  Poetry/' 


SHAKESPEARE 

He  heard  the  Voice  that  spake  and,  unafraid, 
Beheld  at  dawning  of  primeval  light 
The  systems  flame  to  being,  move  in  flight 
Unmeasured,  unimagined,  and  unstayed. 

He  stood  at  nature's  evening  and  surveyed 
Dissolved  worlds, — saw  uncreated  night 
About  the  universe's  depth  and  height 
303 


A   STUDY  INi    SOUTHERN   POETRY 

Slowly  and  silently  forever  laid. 
Down  the  pale  avenues  of  death  he  trod, 

And,   trembling,   gazed   on   scenes   of   hate   that 
chilled  1(> 

His  blood,  and  for  a  breath  his  pulses  stilled : — 
Then  clouds  from  sun-bright  shores  a  moment  rolled 
And,  blinded,  glimpsed  he  One  with  thunder  shod, 
Crowned  with  the  stars,  and  with  the  morning 
stoled! 

SCIENCE 

She  leads  the  sea  through  hills  of  Darien, 
And  brings  the  east  and  west  to  every  door, 
With  silent  influence  drawing  more  and  more 
Into  close  brotherhood  the  tribes  of  men. 

She  holds  the  trail  of  Pain  to  his  secret  den;          6 
The  dim  process  of  being  dares  explore ; 
Spells  slowly  out  on  mountain,  rock,  and  shore 
The  syllables  of  God  to  mortal  ken. 

She  yet  may  sail  from  vague,  cloud-builded  piers, 
And  lay  along  the  darkness  and  the  wind  10 

A  cable  vast  which  world  to  world  shall  bind ; 

Breathless,  may  catch  the  deep,  slow  speech  of  Mars, 
Now,  haply,  passing  on  from  outer  spheres 
The  grave,  tremendous  message  of  the  stars. 


MOLLUSCS 

Down  where  the  bed  of  ocean  sinks  profound, 
Lodged  in  the  clefts  and  chasms  of  the  deep 
Where  silence  and  eternal  darkness  keep 
These  dumb  primordial  living  forms  abound. 

What  know  they  of  this  life  in  the  vast  round 
304 


HENRY  JEROME  STOCKARD 

Of  earth  and  air, — how  wild  the  pulses  leap 

At  love's  sweet  dream, — what  storms  of  sorrow 

sweep, — 
What  hopes  allure  us  and  what  terrors  hound? 

And,  scattered  on  these  slopes  and  plains  below 
This  atmospheric  sea,  one  with  the  worm  10 

And  beetle,  for  a  momentary  term, 

What  know  we  more  of  those  ethereal  spheres, — 
What  rapture  may  be  there,  what  poignant  woe, 
What  towering  passions  and  what  high  careers? 


AS    SOME    MYSTERIOUS    WANDERER    OF 
THE   SKIES 

As  some  mysterious  wanderer  of  the  skies, 

Emerging  from  the  deeps  of  outer  dark, 
Traces  for  once  in  human  ken  the  arc 
Of  its  stupendous  curve,  then  swiftly  flies 

Out  through  some  orbit  veiled  in  space,  which  lies    5 
Where  no  imagination  may  embark, — 
Some  onward-reaching  track  that  God  did  mark 
For  all  eternity  beneath  his  eyes, — 

So  comes  the  soul  forth  from  creation's  vast; 

So  clothed  with  mystery  moves  through  mortal 
sight;  1° 

Then  sinks  away  into  the  Great  Unknown. 

What  systems  it  hath  seen  in  all  the  past, 

What  worlds  shall  blaze  upon  its  future  flight, 
Thou  knowest,  eternal  God,  and  thou  alone  I 


305 


Benjamin  Sledd 

1864 

Mr.  Sledd  was  born  in  Virginia,  and  was  educated 
at  Washington  and  Lee  University,  that  State,  where 
in  1886  he  was  graduated  with  the  degree  of  M.  A. 
Immediately  he  entered  upon  a  course  at  Johns  Hop- 
kins, but  was  compelled  to  give  up  his  plans  on  ac- 
count of  failing  sight.  Since  1888  he  has  been  a 
professor  in  Wake  Forest  College,  Wake  Forest,  N.  C. 

Mr.  Sledd  has  published  two  volumes  of  verses, 
"  From  Cliff  and  Scaur"  and  "  The  Watchers  of  the 
Hearth/'  and  he  has  yet  another  ready  for  the  press, 
"  Idylls  of  the  Old  South/' 

There  is  a  chord  of  melancholy  distinct  in  the 
poef  s  lyrics  which  at  times  becomes  a  major  tone. 


MY   SILENT   GUEST 

In  the  lone  night  she  comes 
And  clasps  her  hand  in  mine; 

We  speak  not :  silence  has 
A  language  more  divine. 

Day  with  its  weary  strife, 
Night  with  its  gloom,  forgot: 

Soul  and  soul  are  wandering 
Where  day  and  night  come  not. 
306 


BENJAMIN    SLEDD 


ISAAC 

"Wood  fur  marster;  Tcin'lin'  wood." — NEGBO  MELODY. 

Where  the  pine-woods  in  the  twilight  murmur  sadly 

of  the  past, 
Singing  goes  he,  with  the  fagots  o'er  his  bended 

shoulder  cast, — 
Poor  old  Isaac,  of  a  vanished  time  and  order,  best 

and  last. 

And  his  song  is  of  the  master,  many  a  year  now  in 

his  grave, 
Loved   as  brother  loveth  brother, — worthy  master, 

worthy  slave.  5 

"Wood  fur  marster;  kin'lin'  wood! " — oh,  the  mem- 
ory of  the  days 

Blessed  with  more  than  ease  and  plenty,  freer  hearts 
and  gentler  ways. 

Once  again  'tis  Christmas  morning,  and  I  watch  with 

sleepless  eyes 
Where  the  phantom  of  the  Yule  log  'mid  its  ashes 

glimmering  lies. 

Isaac's  horn,  without,  is  sounding  day-break  sum- 
mons unto  all. —  10 

Mansion,  cabin,  byre  and  sheepfold,  waken  to  the 
mellow  call. 

And  'tis  Isaac's  noiseless  shadow  starts  the  pine-knots 

into  flame; 
To  the  trundle-bed  then  stealing,  whispers  low  each 

sleeper's  name, 
Loving  forfeit  of  the  children,  who  but  Isaac  first  to 

claim? 

307 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

And  lie  tells  of  many  a  secret  Santa  Glaus  alone 

should  know, — 
Mysteries  that  will  not  wait  the  morning's  tardy 

light  to  show. 

And  the  treasures  without  number  fashioned  by  the 

dear  old  hand — 
Childhood's  inmost,  sweetest  longings,  who  so  well 

could  understand? 
Christ,  who  so  loved  little  children,  bless  him  in  that 

better  land ! 

For  no  more  the  aged  figure  comes  at  sunset  down 

the  way: 
Yonder  stands  his  empty  cabin  slowly  yielding  to 

decay. 
Weeds  and  creepers  now  are  struggling  where  we 

played  before  the  door, 
And  the  rabbit  hides  her  litter  there  beneath  the 

sunken  floor. 

Trees  are  springing  where  the  pathway  to  the  mas- 
ter's mansion  led, 

And  the  feet  which  trooped  along  it,  all  are  vanished, 
some  are  dead.  25 

"  Wood  fur  marster ;  kin'lin'  wood ! " — comes  the 
old  remembered  strain; 

Hush!  'tis  Isaac  softly  singing  by  his  cabin  door 
again! 

— Only  swallows  in  the  twilight  round  the  chimney 
twittering  go, 

Mournful  token  of  the  hearthstone  cold  and  tenant- 
less  below. 

308 


BENJAMIN    SLEDD 


In  the  old  forsaken  garden,  sleeps  the  master,  sleeps 

the  slave: 
And  the  pines  to-night  are  sighing  o'er  each  unre- 

membered  grave. 


DECADENCE 

They  weary  us, — those  mighty  bards  of  old 
Who  sang  alone  of  war  and  fateful  wrong, 
Their  accents  for  our  tired  lives  too  strong, 

Which  all  the  voices  of  the  past  must  hold. 

And  Ilion's  woe,  divinest  tale  e'er  told,  5 

Can  win  us  not;  nor  Milton's  seraph  song; 
And  even  he,  lord  of  the  buskined  throng, 

Speaks  in  a  language  harsh  and  overbold. 

Better  in  time's  still,  pensive  noon  to  lie 

?Mid  the  sweet  grass,  on  lonely  pasture  slopes —     10 

Some  lowly  poet's  new-discovered  rhymes, 

A  far  white  hamlet,  with  its  faint-heard  chimes, 

Murmur  of  youth  and  maiden  loitering  by, 

And  all  our  little  world  of  dreams  and  hopes. 

INTEECESSION 

To-night,  methought,  across  the  moonlight's  play 
Upon  my  wall,  a  shadowy  hand  was  thrust, 
And  past  my  lattice,  like  a  wandering  gust 
Of  ghostly  wind,  that  wailing  dies  away, 
Came  a  low  voice.     "A  year,"  it  seemed  to  say,      5 
"  And  earth  shall  hold  in  her  mysterious  trust 
Thy  little  all  of  silent,  sightless  dust, 
Waiting — some  far-off,  prophet-promised  day ! " 
And  while  I  listened,  awed  but  undismayed, 
309 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Half  joyed  to  give  life's  long,  hard  conflict  o'er,  10 
Came  sound  of  little  feet  upon  my  floor, 
And  touch  of  soft,  warm  cheeks  pressed  to  my  own. 
And    through    the    gloom,    with    burning    heart    I 

prayed, 
"  Spare  me,  ye  powers,  till  my  brood  be  flown ! " 

MY  SILENT  GUEST.  These  lines  have  reference  to 
a  lost  child.  They  are  stamped  with  sincerity. 

ISAAC.  A  true  picture  of  a  character  that  is  pass- 
ing away  rapidly — too  rapidly.  What  type  of  poem 
is  this?  Its  measure?  Its  theme? 

DECADENCE.  What  is  the  exact  theme  in  this  son- 
net? 6.  "Ilion":  Troy.  7.  "Lord  of  the  buskined 
throng":  Shakespeare.  Explain  buskined.  8.  Jus- 
tify the  criticism. 

INTERCESSION.  The  author's  love  for  children  is 
shown  again  here.  Give  the  scheme  of  this  and  con- 
trast its  sestet  with  that  of  the  foregoing.  11,  12.  A 
tender  sentiment. 


310 


Madison  Julius  Cawein 

1865 

No  other  American  of  to-day  has  taken  up  verse- 
writing  with  more  earnestness  than  Mr.  Cawein,  and 
very  few  with  so  much  success.  He  has  already  is- 
sued eight  or  ten  volumes,  and  is  yet  a  young  man. 
His  first  collection,  put  forth  when  he  was  a  school- 
boy, attracted  the  favorable  notice  of  recognized  crit- 
ics; and  if  one  may  judge  by  his  growth  in  his  art 
since  its  appearance  the  author  has  entered  upon  a 
career  honorable  alike  to  himself  and  to  the  South. 

Among  his  books  may  be  named  the  following: — 
"  Blooms  of  the  Berry,"  "  Accolon  of  Gaul,"  "  Lyrics 
and  Idylls/'  "  Moods  and  Memories,"  "  Red  Leaves 
and  Roses,"  "Undertones,"  "The  Garden  of 
Dreams,"  "Shapes  and  Shadows,"  "Idyllic  Mono- 
logues," "One  Day  and  Another,"  "Weeds  by  the 
Wall,"  and  "A  Voice  on  the  Wind."  A  collec- 
tion of  his  poems,  made  by  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse,  was 
published,  1902,  in  England  under  the  title,  "  Ken- 
tucky Poems,"  and  was  received  with  cordial  favor 
throughout  that  country.  Besides  his  original  work, 
he  has  made  good  translations,  in  their  original  me- 
ters, of  tlie  German  poets  from  Goethe  to  Geibel. 
His  poems  are  instinct  with  true  feeling,  graceful  in 
diction,  rich  in  imagery,  and  vivid  in  imagination. 

Mr.  Cawein  is  a  native  of  Louisville,  Ky.,  where 
he  now  lives. 


811 


A    STUDY   IN    SOUTHERN   POETRY 


A  TWILIGHT  MOTH 

Dusk  is  thy  dawn ;  when  Eve  puts  on  her  state 
Of  gold  and  purple  in  the  marblest  west, 

Thou  comest  forth  like  some  embodied  trait, 
Or  dim  conceit,  a  lily-bud  confessed; 

Or,  of  a  rose,  the  visible  wish ;  that,  white,  5 

Goes  softly  messengering  through  the  night, 
Whom  each  expectant  flower  makes  it  guest. 

All  day  the  primroses  have  thought  of  thee, 

Their  golden  heads  close-haremed  from  the  heat; 

All  day  the  mystic  moonflowers  silkenly  10 

Veiled  snowy  faces, — that  no  bee  might  greet 

Or  butterfly  that,  weighed  with  pollen,  passed; — 

Keeping  Sultana  charms  for  thee,  at  last, 
Their  lord,  who  comest  to  salute  each  sweet. 

Cool-throated  flowers  that  avoid  the  day's  15 

Too  fervid  kisses;  every  bud  that  drinks 

The  tipsy  dew  and  to  the  starlight  plays 

Nocturnes  of  fragrance,  thy  winged  shadow  links 

In  bonds  of  secret  brotherhood  and  faith; 

0  bearer  of  their  order's  shibboleth,  20 

Like  some  pale  symbol  fluttering  o'er  these  pinks. 

What  dost  thou  whisper  in  the  balsam's  ear 
That  sets  it  blushing,  or  the  hollyhock's, — 

A  syllabled  silence  that  no  man  may  hear, — 

As  dreamily  upon  its  stem  it  rocks?  25 

What  spell  dost  bear  from  listening  plant  to  plant, 

Like  some  white  witch,  some  ghostly  ministrant, 
Some  spectre  of  some  perished  flower  of  phlox? 
312 


MADISON  JULIUS    CAWEIN 

0  voyager  of  that  universe  which  lies 

Between  the  four  walls  of  this  garden  fair, —       30 
Whose  constellations  are  the  fireflies 

That  wheel  their  instant  courses  everywhere, — 
'Mid  fairy  firmaments  wherein  one  sees 
Mimic  Bootes  and  the  Pleiades, 

Thou  steerest  like  some  fairy  ship-of-air.  35 


Gnome-wrought  of  moonbeam  fluff  and  gossamer, 
Silent  as  scent,  perhaps  thou  chariotest 

Mab  or  King  Oberon;  or,  haply,  her 

His  queen,  Titania,  on  some  midnight  quest. — 

0  for  the  herb,  the  magic  euphrasy,  40 

That  should  unmask  thee  to  mine  eyes,  ah,  me ! 
And  all  that  world  at  which  my  soul  hath  guessed ! 


THE   TREE  TOAD 


Secluded,  solitary  on  some  underbough, 

Or  cradled  in  a  leaf,  'mid  glimmering  light, 
Like  Puck  thou  crouchest :     Haply  watching  how 
The  slow  toad-stool  comes  bulging,  moony  white, 
Through   loosening   loam;    or   how,    against    the 
night,  5 

The  glow-worm  gathers  silver  to  endow 

The  darkness  with;  or  how  the  dew  conspires 
To  hang  at  dusk  with  lamps  of  chilly  fires 
Each  blade  that  shrivels  now. 
313 


A   STUDY   IN   SOUTHERN   POETRY 


II 

0  vague  confederate  of  the  whip-poor-will,  10 

Of  owl  and  cricket  and  the  katydid ! 

Thou  gatherest  up  the  silence  in  one  shrill 
Vibrating  note  and  send'st  it  where,  half  hid 
In  cedars,  twilight  sleeps — each  azure  lid 

Drooping  a  line  of  golden  eyehall  still. — *  15 

Afar,  yet  neat,  I  hear  thy  dewy  voice 
Within  the  Garden  of  the  Hours  apoise 
On  dusk's  deep  daffodil. 

Ill 

Minstrel  of  moisture !  silent  when  high  noon 

Shows  her  tanned  face  among  the  thirsting  clover 

And  parching  meadows  thy  tenebrious  tune  21 

Wakes  with  the  dew  or  when  the  rain  is  over, 
Thou  troubadour  of  wetness  and  damp  lover 

Of  all  cool  things !  admitted  comrade  boon 

Of  twilight's  hush,  and  little  intimate  25 

Of  eve's  first  fluttering  star  and  delicate 
Eound  rim  of  rainy  moon! 

IV 

Art  trumpeter  of  Dwarf -land?  does  thy  horn 
Inform  the  gnomes  and  goblins  of  the  hour 
When  they  may  gambol  under  haw  and  thorn,         30 
Straddling    each    winking    web    and    twinkling 

flower  ? 

Or  bell-ringer  of  Elf-land  ?  whose  tall  tower 
The  liriodendron  is?  from  whence  is  borne 
The  elfin  music  of  thy  bell's  deep  bass, 
To  summon  fairies  to  their  starlit  maze,  86 

To  summon  them  or  warn. 
314 


MADISON  JULIUS    CAWEIN 


DKOUTH 


The  hot  sunflowers  by  the  glaring  pike 
Lift  shields  of  sultry  brass ;  the  teasel  tops, 

Pink-thorned,  advance  with  bristling  spike  on  spike 
Against  the  furious  sunlight.     Field  and  copse 
Are  sick  with  summer  now,  with  breathless  stops 

The  locusts  cymbal;  now  grasshoppers  beat  6 

Their  castanets:  and  rolled  in  dust,  a  team, — 
Like  some  mean  life  wrapped  in  its  sorry  dream, — 

An  empty  wagon  rattles  through  the  heat. 

II 

Where  now  the  blue,  blue  flags?  the  flow'rs  whose 
mouths 

Are  moist  and  musky?    Where  the  sweet-breathed 

mint, 
That  made  the  brook-bank  herby?  Where  the  South's 

Wild  morning-glories,  rich  in  hues,  that  hint 

At  coming  showers  that  the  rainbows  tint?          x* 
Where  all  the  blossoms  tl^at  the  wildwood  knows  ? — 

The  frail  oxalis  hidden  in  its  leaves; 

The  Indian-pipe,  pale  as  a  soul  that  grieves; 
The  freckled  touch-me-not  and  forest-rose. 

Ill 

Dead !  dead !  all  dead  besides  the  drouth-burnt  brook, 

Shrouded  in  moss  or  in  the  shriveled  grass.          20 

Where  waved  their  bells, — from  which  the  wild-bee 

shook 

The  dew-drop  once, — gaunt,  in  a  nightmare  mass, 
315 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

The  rank  weeds  crowd;  through  which  the  cattle 
pass, 

Thirsty  and  lean,  seeking  some  meagre  spring, 
Closed  in  with  thorns,  on  which  stray  bits  of  wool 
The  panting  sheep  have  left,  that  sought  the  cool, 

From  morn  till  evening  wearily  wandering. 


IV 

No  bird  is  heard;  no  throat  to  whistle  awake 
The  sleepy  hush;  to  let  its  music  leak 

Fresh,    bubble-like,    through    bloom-roofs    of    the 
brake:  30 

Only  the  green-blue  heron,  famine  weak, — 
Searching    the    stale    pools    of    the    minnowless 
creek, — 

Utters  its  call;  and  then  the  rain-crow,  too, 
False  prophet  now,  croaks  to  the  stagnant  air; 
While  overhead, — still  as  if  painted  there, —        35 

A  buzzard  hangs,  black  on  the  burning  blue. 


BEFORE    THE   RAIN 

Before  the  rain,  low  in  the  obscure  east, 

Weak  and  morose  the  moon  hung,  sickly  gray; 

Around  its  disc  the  storm  mists,  cracked  and  creased, 
Wove  an  enormous  web,  wherein  it  lay 
Like  some  white  spider  hungry  for  its  prey.          5 

Vindictive  looked  the  scowling  firmament, 
In  which  each  star,  that  flashed  a  dagger  ray, 

Seemed  filled  with  malice  of  some  dark  intent. 
316 


MADISON  JULIUS    CAWEIN 

The  marsh-frog  croaked;  and  underneath  the  stone 
The  peevish  cricket  raised  a  creaking  cry.  10 

Within  the  world  these  sounds  were  heard  alone, 
Save  when  the  ruffian  wind  swept  from  the  sky, 
Making  each  tree  like  some  sad  spirit  sigh; 

Or  shook  the  clumsy  beetle  from  its  weed, 
That,  in  the  drowsy  darkness,  bungling  by,          15 

Sharded  the  silence  with  its  feverish  speed. 

Slowly  the  tempest  gathered.    Hours  passed 
Before  was  heard  the  thunder's  sullen  drum 

Bumbling  night's  hollow ;  and  the  Earth  at  last, 
Kestless  with  waiting, — like  a  woman,  dumb        20 
With  doubting  of  the  love  that  should  have  clomb 

Her  casement  hours  ago, — avowed  again, 
'Mid  protestations,  joy  that  he  had  come. 

And  all  night  long  I  heard  the  Heavens  explain. 


FEUD 

A  mile  of  lane, — hedged  high  with  iron-weeds 
And  dying  daisies, — white  with  sun,  that  leads 
Downward  into  a  wood;  through  which  a  stream 

Steals  like  a  shadow;  over  which  is  laid 
A  bridge  of  logs,  worn  deep  by  many  a  team,  6 

Sunk  in  the  tangled  shade. 

Far  off  a  wood-dove  lifts  it's  lonely  cry; 

And  in  the  sleepy  silver  of  the  sky 

A  gray  hawk  wheels  scarce  larger  than  a  hand. 

From  point  to  point  the  road  grows  worse  and 
worse,  10 

Until  that  place  is  reached  where  all  the  land 

Seems  burdened  with  some  curse. 

517 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

A  ragged  fence  of  pickets,  warped  and  sprung, — 
On  which  the  fragments  of  a  gate  are  hung, — 
Divides  a  hill,  the  fox  and  ground-hog  haunt,          15 

A  wilderness  of  briers;  o'er  whose  tops 
A  battered  barn  is  seen,  low-roofed  and  gaunt, 

'Mid  fields  that  know  no  crops. 

Fields  over  which  a  path,  o'erwhelmed  with  burrs 
And  ragweeds,  noisy  with  the  grasshoppers,  20 

Leads, — lost,  irresolute  as  paths  the  cows 

"Wear  through  the  woods, — unto  a  woodshed;  then, 
With  wrecks  of  windows,  to  a  huddled  house, 

Where  men  have  murdered  men. 

A  house,  whose  tottering  chimney,  clay  and  rock,    25 
Is  seamed  and  crannied ;  whose  lame  door  and  lock 
Are  bullet-bored;  around  which,  there  and  here, 

Are  sinister  stains. — One  dreads  to  look  around. — 
The  place  seems  thinking  of  that  time  of  fear 

And  dares  not  breathe  a  sound.  30 

Within  is  emptiness:  the  sunlight  falls 
On  faded  journals  papering  its  walls; 
On  advertisement  chromos,  torn  with  time, 

Around  a  hearth  where  wasps  and  spiders  build. — 
The  house  is  dead ;  meseems  that  night  of  crime      35 

It,  too,  was  shot  and  killed. 


THE  MAN  IN  GRAY 
I 

Again,  in  dreams,  the  veteran  hears 
The  bugle  and  the  drum; 

Again  the  boom  of  battle  nears, 
Again  the  bullets  hum; 

318 


MADISON  JULIUS    CAWEIN 

Again  he  mounts,  again  he  cheers,  5 

Again  his  charge  speeds  home — 

0  memories  of  those  long  gone  years ! 
0  years  that  are  to  come ! 

We  live  in  dreams  as  well  as  deeds,  in  thoughts  as 

as  well  as  acts; 

And  life  through  things  we  feel,  not  know,  is  real- 
ized the  most;  10 
The  conquered  are  the  conquerors,  despite  the  face 

of  facts, 

If  they  still  feel  their  cause  was  just  who  fought 
for  it  and  lost. 


II 

Again,  in  thought,  he  hears  at  dawn 

The  far  reveille  die; 
Again  he  marches  stern  and  wan  ** 

Beneath  a  burning  sky: 
He  bivouacs;  the  night  comes  on; 

His  comrades  'round  him  lie — 
0  memories  of  the  years  long  gone! 

0  years  that  now  go  by !  20 

The  vintager  of  Earth  is  War,  is  War  whose  grapes 

are  men; 

Into  his  wine-vats  armies  go,  his  wine-vats  steam- 
ing red: 
The  crimson  vats  of  battle  where  he  stalks,  as  in  a 

den, 

Drunk  with  the  must  of  Hell  that  spurts  beneath 
his  iron  tread. 

319 


A    STUDY   IN   SOUTHERN   POETRY 


III 

Again,  in  mind,  he's  lying  where  25 

The  trenches  slay  with  heat; 
Again  his  flag  floats  o'er  him,  fair 

In  charge  or  fierce  retreat: 
Again  all's  lost;  again  despair 

Makes  death  seem  three  times  sweet —    30 
O  years  of  tears  that  crowned  his  hair 

With  laurels  of  defeat! 

There  is  reward  for  those  who  dare,  for  those  who 

dare  and  do; 
Who  face  the  dark  inevitable,  who  fall  and  know 

no  shame: 
Upon  their  banner  triumph  sits  and  in  the  horn 

they  blew, — 

Naught's  lost  if  honor  be  not  lost,  defeat  is  but  a 
name. 


ENCHANTMENT 

The  deep  seclusion  of  this  forest  path, — 

O'er  which  the  green  boughs  weave  a  canopy, 
Along  which  bluet  and  anemone 
Spread  a  dim  carpet;  where  the  twilight  hath 
Her  dark  abode ;  and,  sweet  as  aftermath,  5 

Wood-fragrance  breathes, — has  so  enchanted  me, 
That  yonder  blossoming  bramble  seems  to  be 
Some  sylvan  resting,  rosy  from  her  bath: 
Has  so  enspelled  me  with  tradition's  dreams, 

That  every  foam-white  stream  that  twinkling 
flows,  10 

320 


MADISON  JULIUS    CAWEIN 

And  every  bird  that  flutters  wings  of  tan, 
Or  warbles  hidden,  to  my  fancy  seems 

A  Naiad  dancing  to  a  Faun  who  blows 
Wild  woodland  music  on  the  pipes  of  Pan. 


CAVERNS 

Written  of  Colossal  Cave,  Kentucky 

Aisles  and  abysses;  leagues  no  man  explores, 
Of  rock  that  labyrinths  and  night  that  drips; 
Where  everlasting  silence  broods,  with  lips 

Of  adamant,  o'er  earthquake-builded  floors. 

Where  forms,  such  as  the  Demon- World  adores,       * 
Laborious  water  carves;  whence  echo  slips 
Wild-tongued  o'er  pools  where  petrifaction  strips 

Her  breasts  of  crystal  from  which  crystal  pours. — 

Here  where  primordial  fear,  the  Gorgon,  sits 

Staring  all  life  to  stone  in  ghastly  mirth,       10 
I  seem  to  tread,  with  awe  no  tongue  can  tell, — 

Beneath  vast  domes,  by  torrent-tortured  pits, 
'Mid  wrecks  terrific  of  the  ruined  Earth, — 
An  ancient  causeway  of  forgotten  Hell. 

A  TWILIGHT  MOTH.  A  nature  lyric.  Select  im- 
aginative touches,  as,  for  instance,  29-35.  Study  the 
classical  allusions. 

THE  TREE  TOAD.  Classify  this,  and  characterize 
its  diction.  4.  What  distinguishes  this  line?  Any 
especially  fine  imagery  in  the  poem  ? 

DROUTH.  An  intimate  knowledge  of  nature  is 
disclosed  in  this.  The  picture  is  well  drawn.  The 
poet  seems  to  have  a  fondness  for  compounds.  His 
epithets  are  especially  felicitous:  "glaring  pike/' 
"  sorry  dream,"  "  meagre  spring,"  etc.  His  rhymes 
321 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

are  unusual,  unhackneyed.  Justify  this  assertion 
here  and  in  the  other  selections. 

BEFORE  THE  BAIN.  Another  nature  lyric  into 
which  description  enters  with  fine  effect.  10. 
"Peevish  cricket":  point  out  other  equally  signifi- 
cant epithets.  15,  16.  Striking  lines.  18,  19.  A 
notable  case  of  correspondence  between  sound  and 
sense.  20.  The  figure  is  not  so  apt  as  the  diction. 
24.  Meaning? 

FEUD.  A  descriptive  poem  pervaded  by  a  spirit 
of  horror.  The  theme  is  treated  by  a  firm  hand  and 
from  original  sources.  Some  of  the  most  fatal  feuds 
in  our  history  have  been  in  Kentucky. 

THE  MAN  IN  GRAY.  This  poem  was  written  for 
the  reunion  of  the  Confederate  Veterans  at  Louis- 
ville, Ky.,  1900.  Type  of  poem?  21-24.  What  dis- 
tinguishes this  passage?  What  is  the  central  thought 
in  the  lines — for  instance,  from  33  to  36? 

ENCHANTMENT.  Delicacy  of  thought  and  diction 
characterizes  this  sonnet.  13,  14.  Explain  mytho- 
logical names. 

CAVERNS.  What  characterizes  this?  2.  Origin 
of  the  word  labyrinth  ?  8.  "  Gorgon  " :  explain  the 
allusion  as  revealed  in  the  next  line.  14.  "  Cause- 
way": meaning? 


322 


Walter  Malone 

1866 

Mr.  Malone  is  a  native  of  De  Soto  County,  Miss- 
issippi, and  an  alumnus  of  the  University  of  that 
State,  class  of  1887.  For  ten  years  he  practiced  law 
in  Memphis,  going  to  New  York  City  in  1897,  where 
he  lived  three  years  and  engaged  in  literary  pursuits. 
In  1900  he  returned  to  Memphis  and  resumed  his 
profession.  He  resides  there  now,  and  has  been 
raised  to  the  bench. 

He  has  been  a  faithful  wooer  of  the  Muse.  Some 
of  his  published  volumes  of  verse  are  the  following: 
"Claribel,  and  Other  Poems/'  "The  Outcast,  and 
Other  Poems/'  "Narcissus,  and  Other  Poems/' 
"  Songs  of  Dusk  and  Dawn/'  "  Songs  of  December 
and  June,"  "  The  Coming  of  the  King,"  "  Songs  of 
the  North  and  South,"  and  "  Poems." 


OCTOBER   IN  TENNESSEE 

Far,  far  away,  beyond  a  hazy  height, 

The  turquoise  skies  are  hung  in  dreamy  sleep; 

Below,  the  fields  of  cotton,  fleecy-white, 

Are  spreading  like  a  mighty  flock  of  sheep. 

Now,  like  Aladdin  of  the  days  of  old,  • 

October  robes  the  weeds  in  purple  gowns; 

He  sprinkles  all  the  sterile  fields  with  gold, 
And  all  the  rustic  trees  wear  royal  crowns. 
323 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

The  straggling  fences  are  all  interlaced 

With  pink  and  azure  morning-glory  blooms,    10 

The  starry  asters  glorify  the  waste, 

While  grasses  stand  on  guard  with  pikes  and 
plumes. 

Yet  still  amid  the  splendor  of  decay 

The  chill  winds  call  for  blossoms  that  are  dead, 

The  cricket  chirps  for  sunshine  passed  away,      15 
And  lovely  Summer  songsters  that  have  fled. 

And  lonesome  in  a  haunt  of  withered  vines, 
Amid  the  flutter  of  her  withered  leaves, 

Pale  Summer  for  her  perished  Kingdom  pines, 
And  all  the  glories  of  her  golden  sheaves. 

In  vain  October  woos  her  to  remain 
Within  the  palace  of  his  scarlet  bowers, 

Entreats  her  to  forget  her  heart-break  pain, 
And  weep  no  more  above  her  faded  .flowers. 

At  last  November,  like  a  Conqueror,  comes        25 
To  storm  the  golden  city  of  his  foe; 

We  hear  his  rude  winds,  like  the  roll  of  drums, 
Bringing  their  desolation  and  their  woe. 

The  sunset,  like  a  vast  vermilion  flood, 
Splashes  its  giant  glowing  waves  on  high,        80 

The  forest  flames  with  foliage  red  as  blood, 
A  conflagration  sweeping  to  the  sky. 

Then  all  the  treasures  of  that  brilliant  state 
Are  gathered  in  a  mighty  funeral  pyre; 

October,  like  a  King  resigned  to  fate,  35 

Dies  in  his  forests,  with  their  sunset  fire. 
324 


WALTER  MALONE 


AUTUMN  IN  THE  SOUTH 

This  livelong  day  I  listen  to  the  fall 

Of  hickory  nuts  and  acorns  to  the  ground, 

The  croak  of  rain-crows  and  the  blue  jay's  call, 
The  woodman's  axe  that  hews  with  muffled  sound. 

And  like  a  spendthrift  in  a  threadbare  coat  6 

That  still  retains  a  dash  of  crimson  hue, 

An  old  woodpecker  chatters  forth  a  note 
About  the  better  Summer  days  he  knew. 

Across  the  road  a  ruined  cabin  stands, 

With  ragweeds  and  with  thistles  at  its  door,       10 
While  withered  cypress  vines  hang  tattered  strands 

About  its  falling  roof  and  rotting  floor. 

In  yonder  forest  nook  no  sound  is  heard 
Save  when  the  walnuts  patter  on  the  earth, 

Or  when  by  winds  the  hectic  leaves  are  stirred      15 
To  dance  like  witches  in  their  maniac  mirth. 

Down  in  the  orchard  hang  the  golden  pears, 
Half  honeycombed  by  yellow-hammer  beaks; 

Near  by,  a  dwarfed  and  twisted  apple  bears 

Its  fruit,  brown-red  as  Amazonian  cheeks.          20 

The  lonesome  landscape  seems  as  if  it  yearned 
Like  our  own  aching  hearts,  when  first  we  knew 

The  one  love  of  our  life  was  not  returned, 
Or  first  we  found  an  old-time  friend  untrue. 

At  last  the  night  comes,  and  the  broad  white  moon  25 
Is  welcomed  by  the  owl  with  frenzied  glee; 

The  fat  opossum,  like  a  satyr,  soon 
Blinks  at  its  light  from  yon  persimmon  tree. 
S25 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

The  raccoon  starts  to  hear  long-dreaded  sounds, 
Amid  his  scattered  spoils  of  ripened  corn —        30 

The  cry  of  negroes  and  the  yelp  of  hounds, 
The  wild,  rude  pealing  of  a  hunter's  horn. 

At  last  a  gray  mist  covers  all  the  land 
Until  we  seem  to  wander  in  a  cloud, 

Far,  far  away  upon  some  elfin  strand  35 

Where  Sorrow  drapes  us  in  a  mildewed  shroud. 

No  voice  is  heard  in  field  or  forest  nigh 

To  break  the  desolation  of  the  spell 
Save  one  sad  mocking-bird  in  boughs  near  by, 

Who  sings  like  Tasso  in  his  madman's  cell;         40 

While  one  magnolia  blossom,  ghastly  white, 
Like  high-born  Leonora,  lingering  there, 

Haughty  and  splendid  in  the  lonesome  night, 
Is  pale  with  passion  in  her  dumb  despair. 


"HE  WHO    HATH  LOVED" 

He  who  hath  loved  hath  borne  a  vassal's  chain, 

And  worn  the  royal  purple  of  a  king; 

Hath  shrunk  beneath  the  icy  Winter's  sting, 
Then  reveled  in  the  golden  Summer's  reign; 
He  hath  within  the  dust  and  ashes  lain, 

Then  soared  o'er  mountains  on  an  eagle's  wing; 

A  hut  hath  slept  in,  worn  with  wandering, 
And  hath  been  lord  of  castle-towers  in  Spain. 
826 


WALTER   MALONE 


He  who  hath  loved  hath  starved  in  beggar's  cell, 
Then  in  Aladdin's  jeweled  chariot  driven; 

He  hath  with  passion  roamed  a  demon  fell, 
And  had  an  angel's  raiment  to  him  given; 

His  restless  soul  hath  burned  with  flames  of  hell, 
And    winged    through    ever-blooming    fields    of 
heaven. 

OCTOBER  IN  TENNESSEE.  What  class  of  poem  does 
this  represent?  5.  " Aladdin":  explain  the  char- 
acter. 12.  An  imaginative  line.  Point  out  other 
like  touches.  Some  of  the  figures  are  striking; 
choose  the  best  for  analysis. 

AUTUMN  IN  THE  SOUTH.  Does  this  fall  in  the 
same  class  with  the  foregoing?  Which  predomi- 
nates, description  or  reflection  ?  20.  "  Amazonian  " : 
interpret.  25-28.  What  felicitous  imagery?  40. 
Explain  the  allusion. 

"  HE  WHO  HATH  LOVED/'  This  is  one  of  the  poet's 
best  pieces  of  verse.  The  theme  justifies  the  hyper- 
boles. It  is  the  Petrarchan  type  of  sonnet  Com- 
pare it  with  the  Shakesperean  and  state  wherein 
they  differ. 


327 


Virginia  Frazer  Boyle 

18— 

Mrs.  Boyle  is  a  daughter  of  the  late  Col.  Charles 
Wesley  Frazer,  who  was  an  officer  in  the  Confederate 
Army.  She  was  married  to  Mr.  Thomas  E.  Boyle, 
an  attorney  of  Memphis,  Tenn.,  her  native  city, 
where  she  has  always  lived.  She  comes  of  old  Col- 
onial and  [Revolutionary  stock  on  both  sides,  repre- 
senting North  Carolina  and  Virginia  lines. 

Her  writings,  both  prose  and  verse,  have  appeared 
in  the  Atlantic,  the  Century,  Harper's,  and  other 
like  magazines.  "The  Other  Side,"  her  first  book, 
a  poem  of  the  South  from  its  settlement  through  Ee- 
construction,  was  well  received  both  North  and 
South.  The  same  may  be  said  of  "  Brokenburne,"  a 
love  story  of  the  war.  "  Devil  Tales,"  published  by 
Harper's  in  1900,  a  series  of  old  nurses'  stories,  which 
first  ran  through  their  magazine,  possesses  literary 
and  dramatic  interest.  Other  books  by  her  are 
"  Serena/'  a  novel,  and  "  Love  Songs  and  Bugle 
Calls/' 


THE   WIZAED    OP    THE    SADDLE 

It  was  out  of  the  South  that  the  lion  heart  came, 
From  the  ranks  of  the  Gray  like  the  flashing  of  flame, 
A  juggler  with  fortune,  a  master  with  fame — 
The  rugged  heart  born  to  command. 
328 


VIRGINIA   FRAZER   BOYLE 

And  he  rode  by  the  star  of  an  unconquered  will,       6 
And  he  struck  with  the  might  of  an  undaunted  skill, 
Unschooled,  but  as  firm  as  the  granite-flanked  hill — 
As  true  and  as  tried  as  steel. 

Though  the  Gray  were  outnumbered,  he  counted  no 

odd, 

But  fought  like  a  demon  and  struck  like  a  god,        10 
Disclaiming  defeat  on  the  blood-curdled  sod, 
As  he  pledged  to  the  South  that  he  loved. 

'Twas  saddle  and  spur,  or  on  foot  in  the  field, 
Unguided  by  tactics  that  knew  how  to  yield; 
Stripped  of  all,  save  his  honor,  but  rich  in  that 
shield,  15 

Full  armored  by  nature's  own  hand. 

As  the  rush  of  the  storm,  he  swept  on  the  foe ; 
It  was  "  Come !  "  to  his  legions,  he  never  said  "  Go !  " 
With  sinews  unbending,  how  could  the  world  know 
That  he  rallied  a  starving  host? 

For  the  wondering  ranks  of  the  foe  were  like  clay 

To  these  men  of  flint  in  the  molten  day ; 

And  the  hell-hounds  of  war  howled  afar  for  their 

prey, 
When  the  arm  of  a  Forrest  led. 

For  devil  or  angel,  life  stirred  when  he  spoke,         25 
And  the  current  of  courage,  if  slumbering,  woke 
At  the  yell  of  the  leader,  for  never  was  broke 
The  record  men  wondering  read. 

With  a  hundred  he  charged  like  a  thousand  men, 
And  the  hoofbeats  of  one  seemed  the  tattoo  of  ten ;  30 
What  bar  were  burned  bridges  or  flooded  fords  when 
The  wizard  of  battles  was  there  1 

829 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

But  his  pity  could  bend  to  a  fallen  foe, 
The  mailed  hand  soothe  a  brother's  woe; 
There  was  time  to  be  human,  for  tears  to  flow —      35 
For  the  heart  of  the  man  to  thrill. 

Then  "  On !  "  as  though  tfever  a  halt  befell, 
With  a  swinging  blade  and.  the  Eebel  yell, 
Through  the  song  of  the  bullets  and  ploughshares  of 

hell— 
The  hero,  half  iron,  half  soul !  40 

Swing,  rustless  blade  in  the  strong  right  hand — 
Eide,  soul  of  a  god,  through  the  dauntless  band — 
Through  the  low  green  mounds  or  the  breadth  of  the 

land — 
Wherever  your  legions  dwell ! 

Swing,  Rebel  blade,  through  the  halls  of  fame,        45 
Where  courage  and  justice  have  left  your  name ; 
By  the  torches  of  glory  your  deeds  shall  flame 
In  the  reckoning  of  Time ! 


THE  WOMEN   OF  THE   CONFEDERACY 

War  has  played  the  game  of  battles  on  the  bloody 

field  of  Mars, 
With  fate  behind  the  masque  of  hope,  for  clashing 

gray  and  blue; 
And  beside  its  broken  altars,  one  has  furled  its  stars 

and  bars, — 

The  whitest  flower  of  chivalry  that  Heraldry  e'er 
knew; 

330 


VIRGINIA   FRAZER   BOYLE 

And  the  knighthood  of  the  Southland  kept  the  mem- 
ory of  its  Cross,  5 
Above  the  bitter  lees  of  life  the  darkened  years 

have  quaffed, — 
For  its  spirit  lives,  invincible,  beyond  life's  woe  and 

loss, — 

Its  wassail  bowl  was  valor  and  immortal  truth  the 
draught. 

How  they  charged !  the  whole  world  wondered  at  the 

thrilling  battle  stroke, — 

In  life's  grandest  panorama,  like  Crusaders  they 

had  come; —  10 

But  knightlier  far,  than  legend  e'er  in  song  or  story 

woke, — * 

For  their  Cross  was  love  and  honor,  and  their  Holy 
Grail  was  Home! — 

What  marvel  then,  that  nations  heard  and  gave  of 

their  applause, 

Before  the  clash  of  right  with  might, — of  princi- 
ple with  gold  ? — 

That  cradle  and  the  grave  were  robbed  to  swell  the 
living  cause,  15 

That  left  upon  the  sodden  field  the  grandest  record 
told! 

Fate  won ;  and  knew  not  mercy  in  that  awful  molten 

blare, 
When  the  Southrons  turned  in  sorrow  from  the 

smoking  cannon's  mouth. 
But  the  arms  of  love  were  round  them,  and  above  a 

grim  despair 

Rose  the  voices  of  their  vestals, — faithful  women 
of  the  South!  20 

331 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Theirs  were  the  hands  that  tied  the  sash  and  girt  the 

blade  of  light; 
Theirs  were  the  hearts  that  fared  them  forth,  the 

bravest  of  the  brave; 
Theirs  were  the  feet  that  trod  the  loom  from  morn 

till  weary  night, 

And  theirs  the  love  that  knelt  in  faith  beside  a  war- 
rior's grave ! 

Far  out  upon  the  wrecks  of  love,  their  cradle  songs 

were  cast, —  25 

The  songs  of  nursing  mothers,  as  they  wept  the 

blood-stained  shields; 
And  hymned  unto  the  boom  of  guns,  the  rattling  of 

the  blast, — 

Their  days  of  youth  lie  buried  on  forgotten  battle- 
fields; 

But  they  builded  in  the  twilight  of  their  hopes  and 

of  their  fears, 

Love's  memorial  unto  valor,  that  shall  stand  while 

time  shall  bide;  so 

Blent  of  springtime's  crimson  roses  and  the  purity 

of  tears, — 

The  Southron's  glory-chaplet,  for  the  victor's  shaft, 
denied. 

And  the  wide  world  heard  no  murmur  from  the 

keepers  of  the  shrine, — 
In  the  birth  throe  of  a  nation,  nor  the  death  pang 

that  it  brought, — 

In  the  tending  of  the  cypress  that  a  faithful  few  will 
twine,  35 

When  fate  tramples  down  the  laurels  that  a  daunt- 
less people  sought. 

832 


VIRGINIA   FRAZER   BOYLE 

Give  the  laurel  to  the  victor, — give  the  song  unto  the 

slain, — 
Give  the  Iron  Cross  of  Honor,  ere  death  lays  the 

Southron  down! — 
But  give  to  these,  soul  proven,  tried  by 'fire  and  by 

Pain, 

A  memory  of  their  mother-love  that  pressed  an 
Iron  Crown!  4(> 

THE  WIZARD  OF  THE  SADDLE.  This  noble  poem 
was  read  at  the  laying  of  the  corner-stone  of  the 
monument  erected  to  the  memory  of  Gen.  Nathan 
Bedford  Forrest,  the  dashing  cavalry  leader  of  the 
Confederacy.  It  is  a  lyric  of  rememberable  power. 
It  was  written  in  1902  by  invitation  of  the  Forrest 
Monument  Association,  of  Memphis. 

THE  WOMEN  OF  THE  CONFEDERACY.  This  was 
written  for  the  book  of  Memorial  Histories  pub- 
lished by  the  Confederated  Southern  Memorial  As- 
sociation, whose  badge,  the  iron  crown,  was  suggested 
by  the  last  stanza.  Classify  both  poems.  Is  the 
movement  in  the  first  regular?  Should  it  be? 
Choose  striking  imagery  for  analysis.  Criticise. 
8.  In  second  poem :  wassail  bowl ;  explain.  9.  What 
recollection  of  Tennyson?  10.  Is  there  another  line 
equal  to  this  in  power?  12.  Allusions?  20.  "Ves- 
tals": meaning?  This  is  one  of  the  poems  that 
should  be  committed  to  memory.  To  say  it  makes 
an  approach  toward  its  lofty  theme  is  to  accord  it 
very  high  praise. 


333 


John  Charles  McNeill 

1874-1907 

John  Charles  McNeill  was  a  native  of  North  Caro- 
lina. His  ancestors  came  from  Scotland  and  settled 
in  the  Old  North  State  about  the  beginning  of  the 
nineteenth  century. 

He  was  graduated  from  "Wake  Forest  College, 
Wake  Forest,  N".  C.,  in  1898,  but  remained  a  year 
for  post-graduate  work,  meanwhile  acting  as  tutor 
in  the  department  of  English.  In  1900  he  was 
elected  to  assistant's  position  in  Mercer  College, 
where  he  spent  a  year.  He  then  turned  to  the  law 
as  a  profession,  in  which  he  met  with  encouragement. 
He  was  elected  to  represent  his  country  in  the  State 
legislature  one  term,  but  he  cared  little  for  politics. 
His  verses  having  found  acceptance  with  the  Century 
editors,  he  was  encouraged  to  cast  himself  more  fully 
upon  a  literary  career.  The  Charlotte  (N.  C.)  06- 
server,  too,  recognized  his  gifts  and  made  him  an 
offer  to  join  the  staff  of  that  journal.  The  offer  was 
accepted,  and  McNeill's  column  became  a  feature  of 
the  Observer  almost  up  to  the  day  of  his  death. 

Two  volumes  embody  his  work,  "  Songs  Merry 
and  Sad "  and  "  Lyrics  from  Cotton  Land,"  both 
published  by  Messrs.  Stone  and  Barringer,  Charlotte, 
N.  C.  The  titles  of  the  two  books  characterize  the 
spirit  of  their  contents.  The  negro  dialect  pieces 
are  wonderfully  true,  and  the  more  serious  lines  con- 
vince one  that  the  untimely  death  of  the  young  poet 
was  especially  to  be  deplored. 
334 


JOHN    CHARLES    McNEILL 


"OH,  ASK  ME  NOT" 

Love,  should  I  set  my  heart  upon  a  crown, 

Squander  my  years,  and  gain  it, 
What  recompense  of  pleasure  could  I  own? 

For  youth's  red  drops  would  stain  it. 

Much  have  I  thought  on  what  our  lives  may  { 

mean,  * 

And  what  their  best  endeavor, 
Seeing  we  may  not  come  again  to  glean, 

But,  losing,  lose  forever. 

Seeing  how  zealots,  making  choice  of  pain, 

From  home  and  country  parted, 
Have  thought  it  life  to  leave  their  fellow  slain, 

Their  women  broken-hearted ; 

How  teasing  truth  a  thousand  faces  claims, 

As  in  a  broken  mirror, 
And  what  a  father  died  for  in  the  flames  1B 

His  own  son  scorns  as  error; 

How  even  they  whose  hearts  were  sweet  with  song 

Must  quaff  oblivion's  potion, 
And,  soon  or  late,  their  sails  be  lost  along 

The  all-surrounding  ocean; 

Oh,  ask  me  not  the  haven  of  our  ships, 

Nor  what  flag  floats  above  you ! 
I  hold  you  close,  I  kiss  your  sweet,  sweet  lips, 

And  love  you,  love  you,  love  you ! 


335 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 


SUNDOWN 

Hills,  wrapped  in  gray,  standing  along  the  west; 

Clouds,  dimly  lighted,  gathering  slowly; 
The  star  of  peace  at  watch  above  the  crest  — 

Oh,  holy,  holy,  holy! 

We  know,  0  Lord,  so  little  what  is  best; 

Wingless,  we  move  so  lowly; 
But  in  thy  calm  all-knowledge  let  us  rest  — 

Oh,  holy,  holy,  holy  ! 


De  Augus'  meetin's  over  now, 

We's  all  done  been  baptize'  ; 
Me  en  Ham  en  Hick'ry  Jim 

En  Joe's  big  Lize. 

Oh,  'ligion  is  a  cu'i's  thing  g 

In  its  workin'  amongs'  men  ! 
We'll  hatter  wait  a  whole  yur  now 

'Fo'  bein'  baptize'  again! 

A   FEW   DAYS    OFF 

1  ain't  gwine  a  work  till  my  dyin'  day; 

'F  I  ever  lays  up  enough, 
I's  gwine  a  go  off  a  while  en  stay; 

I'll  be  takin'  a  few  days  off. 
'Ca'se  de  jimson  weeds  don't  bloom  but  once,  5 

En  when  dey's  shed  de/s  shed; 
En  when  you's  dead,  'tain't  jis'  a  few  monf  s, 

But  you's  gwine  be  a  long  time  dead. 
836 


JOHN   CHARLES   McNEILL 

I  knowed  a'  ol'  man  died  powerful  rich — 

Two  mules  en  Ian'  en  a  cow.  10 

I  jus'  soon  die  furri  fallin'  in  a  ditch, 

Fur  he  went  to's  grave  fum's  plough. 
He  never  had  nothin'  'twas  good  to  eat 

Ner  no  piller  upon  his  hed; 
He  never  took  time  to  dance  wid  his  feet,      ** 

But  he's  gwine  a  take  a  long  time  dead. 

I  know  a'  ol'  woman  wut  scrubbed  and  hoed, 

En  never  didn'  go  nowhar, 
En  when  she  died  de  people  'knowed 

Dat  she  had  supp'n  hid  'bout  dar.  *> 

She  mought  a  dressed  up  en  a-done  supp'n' 
wrong 

En  had  'er  a  coht-case  ple'd; 
But  she  didn'  have  time  to  live  veh  long; 

She's  gwine  have  a  plenty  dead. 

So  I  says,  if  I  manage  to  save  enough  * 

Frum  de  wages  I  gits  dis  yur, 
I  is  right  den  takin'  a  few  days  off 

At  one  time  en  an'er. 
'Ca'se  while  I  is  got  my  mouf  en  eyes 

En  a  little  wheel  in  my  head,  80 

I's  gwine  a  live  fas',  fer  when  I  dies 

I'll  sho'  be  a  long  time  dead. 

"  OH,  ASK  ME  NOT."  McNeill  regarded  this  as 
his  best  work.  Point  out  felicitous  figures.  7,  9. 
Exact  meaning  of  "seeing"?  13.  Explain  "teas- 
ing." Give  the  thought  in  the  entire  poem. 

SUNDOWN.  There  is  sincere  reverence  in  these 
lines.  What  type  of  lyric  is  it? 

337 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

A  FEW  DAYS  OFF.  The  lines  call  up  the  quat- 
rain so  often  seen  in  the  cafes  of  Berlin's  Latin 
Quarter: 

Das  Leben  froh   geniessen 

1st  der  Vernunft  Gebot, 
Man  lebt  doch  nur  so  kurze  Zeit 

Und  is  so  lange  todt. 

[("'Enjoy   your    life,    my    brother/ 

Is    gray    old    reason's    song. 
One  has  so  little  time  to  live 

And  one  is  dead  so  long.") 


'899 


Olive  Tilford  Dargan 

187- 

Mrs.  Olive  Tilford  Dargan  was  born  some  time  in 
the  "  troublous  seventies/'  in  the  town  of  Old  Caney, 
county  of  Grayson,  which  lies  in  the  hill-country  of 
western  Kentucky  on  the  borders  of  the  blue-grass 
region.  She  is  of  Virginian  ancestry,  but  her  fore- 
fathers emigrated  to  Kentucky  in  time  to  take  part 
in  the  founding  of  that  Commonwealth.  Her  mother, 
Rebecca  Day,  was  a  remarkably  gifted  teacher,  and 
her  father,  Francis  Tilford,  was  also  a  teacher  of 
much  popularity  before  he  finally  fell  upon  days  of 
unrelieved  invalidism.  He  was,  however,  of  a  rest- 
less temperament,  and  moved  with  his  family  to  Mis- 
souri when  Olive,  his  second  daughter,  was  ten  years 
old.  For  three  years  the  parents  taught  together  in 
the  town  of  Doniphan,  but,  the  mother's  health  fail- 
ing, the  family  removed  to  Warm  Springs,  a  health 
resort  in  the  Ozark  foothills  of  northern  Arkansas, 
where  her  father  again  established  a  successful 
school.  It  was  near  this  place  that  Mrs.  Dargan, 
then  a  child  of  fourteen,  began  her  work  as  teacher, 
at  the  same  time  continuing  her  own  studies,  which 
she  declared  to  be  "  the  fun  of  her  life." 

At  the  age  of  eighteen  she  secured  a  scholarship  to 
the  University  of  Nashville,  Tenn.,  and  two  years 
later  was  graduated  with  honor  from  that  institu- 
tion. After  three  more  years  of  teaching,  one  in 
Missouri  and  two  in  San  Antonio,  Tex.,  she  went 
to  Cambridge,  Mass.,  and  became  a  student  of 

339 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

Radcliffe  College,  taking  courses  in  philosophy  and 
literature,  but  for  the  most  part  working  independ- 
ently in  the  Harvard  library.  It  was  here  that  she 
met  Mr.  Pegram  Dargan,  then  in  his  senior  year  at 
Harvard,  to  whom  she  was.  married  three  years  later. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dargan,  when  not  in  New  York  city, 
are  usually  to  be  found  at  their  beautiful  mountain 
place  in  western  North  Carolina,  two  miles  from  the 
village  of  Almond. 

Mrs.  Dargan  is  a  contributor  to  the  best  maga- 
zines, though  she  has  written  very  few  lyrics.  She 
has  published  "Semiramis,  and  Other  Plays/' 
"Lords,  and  Lovers,"  and  a  masque,  "The  Woods 
of  Ida."  She  has  a  new  books  of  plays  in  prepara- 
tion. All  her  work  is  vibrant  with  life. 

SOROLLA 

"  I  am  fleet,"  said  the  joy  of  the  sun, 

Trembling  then  on  the  breast 

Of  the  summer,  white,  still; 

"  I  am  fleet,  I  am  gone." 

Smiling  came  one  6 

With  brush  and  a  will, 

Undelaying,  unpressed, 

And  the  glancing  gold  of  the  tremulous 

sun 
Lingers  for  man,  inescapable,  won. 

"Not  here,  nor  yet  there,"  10 

Cried  the  waves  that  fled, 
"Shall  ye  set  us  a  snare. 
Motion  is  breath,  of  us, 
Stillness  is  death  of  us; 
We  pause  and  are  sped,  " 

S40 


OLIVE   TILFORD    DARGAN 


We  live  as  we  run/' 
Laughing  came  one 
With  brush  and  a  will, 
And  the  waves  never  die  and  are  never- 
more still. 

"  I  pass,"  said  the  light  20 

On  the  face  of  the  child; 
But  softly  came  one 
And  forever  it  smiled. 
Here  Time  shall  replight 
His  faith  with  the  dawn,  *6 

And  his  ages  gaunt,  gray, 
Ever  cycling  behold 
Their  youth  never  flown 
In  a  world  never  old, 
Though  they  pass  and  repass  with  their 
trailing  decay.  30 

"We  stay/'  said  the  shadows,  and  hung 
On  the  brush  of  the  master ;  "  take  us, 

thine  own ! " 
Fearless  he  flung 

The  magical  chains  around  them,  and  said, 
"Ye  too  shall  be  light,  and  to  life  bring 

the  sun."  35 

And  man,  delayed 

By  the  painted  pain's  revealing  glow, 
Feeleth  the  breathing  woe, 
And  his  vow  is  made: 

"Ye  shall  pass,  ye  shadows;  yea,  40 

And  life,  as  the  sun,  be  free; 
The  God  in  me  saith!" 
And  the  shadows  go; 


A  STUDY  IN  SOUTHERN  POETRY 

For  joy  is  the  breath  45 

Of  eternity, 

And  sorrow  the  sigh  of  a  day. 


THE  GEEAT  MAN 

Born  of  needs  of  little  men, 

Of  the  longing  gods  in  them, 

Of  the  reach  of  children's  hands, 

Of  the  piercing  mother  eyes 

Begging  "Now!"  and  praying  "When?" 

5 

Of  the  yearning  millions'  cries, 

Of  the  passion  and  the  dream 

Sighing  up  from  trodden  lands, 

Comes  the  vision  and  the  power, 

Comes  the  voice  unmastered,  free  10 

Comes  the  soul  unto  the  hour, 

And  the  way  grows  wide  for  him 

Walking  with  the  day  to  be. 

Dead  the  grasp  of  Custom  then, 

Silent  grows  her  voice  and  pen;  15 

Break  as  thread  the  steel-drawn  strands, 

Part  as  air  the  birth-wrong  bands; 

Graves  no  longer  overawe; 

Dust  is  dust,  and  men  are  men; 

A  living  tongue  again  gives  living  law.      20 

Trophies  ours  by  gold  and  gun, 
Little  treasures,  houses, — nay, 
Guerdons  of  our  dearest  fight, — 
Now  are  fuel  for  his  sun, 
And  the  dreams  that  lit  the  night  25 

Burn  as  candles  in  the  day. 
342 


OLIVE   TILFORD    DARGAN 


Yet  we  made  thee,  Man  of  Bight, 

As  our  being  plead  to  rise; 

Of  our  straining  arm  thy  might; 

Even  as  we  prayed  for  sight,  so 

Lo,  afar  thou  hadst  thy  prophet  eyes. 

Ay,  thy  gleaming  spear  is  ours ; 

Ours  thy  fearless,  golden  how; 

And  our  shining  arrows  go 

From  thy  bright  untaken  towers.  w 

Thou  art  what  we  will  to  be, 

Sceptre,  star  and  winged  cloud; 

We  are  blood  and  brawn  of  thee, 

Glowing  up  through  sod  and  stone, 

Burning  through  thy  rended  shroud,  40 

Moving  with  thee,  chainless,  on, 

Till  the  world,  a  quickened  whole, 

Truth-delivered,  naked,  free, 

Once  again  hath  found  its  deathless  soul. 

SOROLLA.  A  Spanish  painter  whose  pictures,  espe- 
cially of  seashore  life  of  Valencia,  are  notable  for 
their  exquisite  chasteness. 

THE  GREAT  MAN.  We  consider  this  as  possibly 
Mrs.  Dargan's  best  short  poem. 


343 


Index  of  Authors 

ALLSTON,    WASHINGTON    : 22 

BONEB,  JOHN  HENBY  258 

BOYLE,  VIBGINIA.  FBAZEB 328 

CAWEIN,  MADISON  JULIUS   311 

COOKE,  JOHN  ESTEN 171 

COOKE,  PHILIP  PENDLETON    93 

DABGAN,  OLIVE  TILFOBD   339 

FLASH,  HENBY  LYNDEN    177 

GOBDON,    ABMISTEAD   CHUBCHILL 288 

HABNEY,  WILL  WALLACE   173 

HAYNE,  PAUL  HAMILTON   161 

HAYNE,   WILLIAM   HAMILTON    292 

HILL,  THEOPHILUS  HUNTEB  184 

HOPE,  JAMES  BABBON    156 

JACKSON,  HENBY  ROOTES   104 

JEFFBEY,  ROSA  VEBTNEB  143 

KEY,   FBANCIS   SCOTT    25 

LANIEB,  SIDNEY  224 

LEGABE,  JAMES  MATTHEWS    119 

MCCABE,  WILLIAM  GOBDON  219 

MCNEILL,  JOHN  CHABLES  334 

MALONE,   WALTEB    323 

O'HABA,  THEODOBE   99 

PALMES,  JOHN  WILLIAMSON  123 

PECK,  SAMUEL  MINTUBN   282 

PIATT,  SABAH  M.  B 190 

PIKE,  ALBEBT  81 

PINKNEY,  EDWABD  COATE  35 

POE,   EDGAB  ALLAN    46 

PBENTICE,   GEOBGE  DENISON 31 

PBESTON,  MABGABET  JUNKIN  134 

RANDALL,  JAMES  RYDEB 205 

845 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


REQUIEB,  AUGUSTUS  JULIAN  129 

RUSSELL,   IEWIN    276 

RYAN,  ABBAM  J 198 

SIMMS,  WILLIAM  GILMOBE  39 

SLEDD,  BENJAMIN   306 

SPALDING,  JOHN  LANCASTEB 215 

STANTON,  FBANK  LEBBY ; 297 

STOCKABD,  HENBY  JEROME  303 

TABB,  JOHN  BANISTEB  266 

THOMPSON,  JAMES  MAUBICE  247 

THOMPSON,  JOHN  REUBEN 113 

THOMPSON,  WILL  HENBY  268 

TICKNOB,  FBANCIS  OBBAY   108 

TIMBOD,  HENBY  146 

TOWNSEND,  MABY  ASHLEY  193 

TUCKEB,  ST.  GEOBGE   20 

WELBY,  AMELIA  B 96 

WILDE,  RICHABD  HENBY  28 


846 


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